


Bonds of Old: Ghosts of Present Past

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Medieval Fantasy 'Vengers Cakeverse [3]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Dragons, F/M, Fantasy, Food Porn, Ghosts, M/M, Magic, Multi, Music, Soul Bond, bonded couples, epic fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-02-15 11:49:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 59,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2227944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Clint Barton never imagined his small manor would be the epicenter of the resurgence of magic nor that the arranged marriage he made to save the holding would bring Philip Coulson into his life and his bed. Now he's got a Berserker married to a bard who happens to be his sister-in-law, a legendary warrior, just awake from a magical sleep in a frozen lake, an Asgardian Prince courting Phil's cousin, and his right hand who, along with being the toughest woman Clint had ever known, was short sighted when it came to her love live.</p><p>As spring arrives, Lord Anthony Stark is still missing, the sorcerer adversary makes his next move and all the heroes find themselves at the mercy of their pasts. And there's a dragon to deal with.</p><p>This story is told from the POVS of Clint, Phil, Natasha, Steve, and Bucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is part three of the Bonds of Old series. An epic medieval fantasy, this story picks up where Bonds of Old: A Voice int he Wilderness ends. This installment continues the story of Clint and Phil, while also following the bonding of Natasha, Steve, and Bucky. 
> 
> The story thus far:
> 
> Magic has returned to the Midlands just as a new shadow grows in the Northern mountains. Near heroes emerge to combat the evil forces and bonded couples begin to appear. Legends, it seems, are no longer just stories. An arranged marriage brings Clint Barton and Philip Coulson together just in time to fight the first wave of undead. Together with Clint's thanes, Carol Danvers, Jessica Drew, and Natasha Romanov, they stave off the magical machinations of Prince Loki of Asgard and mountain wargs. Along the way they uncovered the shield of Lord Steven Rogers, the hero of tales, and set about looking for the rest of his armor; with the help of Darcy Lewis, a budding bard, and the clerk Bruce Banner, a berserker, they found Lord Rogers himself, trapped in a magical sleep beneath the surface of an icy lake.

**From the Journal of Julie Powers**

In the end, we did it to ourselves. In our hubris, we thought we were in control, that we were smarter, but we were wrong. The greatest evil was created in a moment of compassion, the human desire to believe the best in the other, to save even the least little spark of humanity in the darkness of the soul. We learned from the master, a genius intellect and a flawed man. He preached belief in the good, trust in each other, and faith in the power of science. Passionate intensity he instilled in us, those he trained to be guardians, to protect and serve.

Are we programmed to depravity? All humans incapable of falling into sin? I always believed Calvin’s too dark a view; much preferring the blank slate to be written upon. And yet we came apart at the seams so easily with just a few blows, turning on each other in the heat of battle. Even the strongest of heroes were crushed by the relentless logic, the onslaught of monsters made to exploit our weaknesses. Too many friends have died, too many lost their nerve, too many did what they had to in order to survive.

We created our own destruction and we are to blame. At least, we can own that.

**Excerpt from the Second Preface of My Secret Life by Anonymous**

What strikes me as curious in reading it, is the monotony of the course I have pursued toward women who were not of the gay class; it has been as similar, and repetitive as fucking itself; do all men act so, does every man kiss, coax, hint smuttily, then talk baudily, snatch a feel, smell his fingers, assault, and win, exactly as I have done? Is every woman offended, say no, then oh! blush, be angry, refuse, close her thighs, after a struggle open them, and yield to her lust as mine have done? A conclave of whores telling the truth, and of Romish Priests, could alone settle the point. Have all men had the strange letches which late in life have enraptured me, though in early days the idea of them revolted me? I can never know this, my experience if printed may enable others to compare as I cannot.

**“His Ecstacy”**

He is yours,

he is mine –

if we quarrel to hold him,

he goes.

His the red lily,

the white rose.

 

If you struggle to whet

your stylus,

you hurry to melt

scented wax

for your tablets,

he knows

no pity.

 

You will write in the city

of fir-trees and loam,

in the fields

you will sing of the market;

you will be among prophets

a satyr;

when the note of the flute

calls to dance,

you will walk

drunk, but not

with that mixed wine:

his tune is his own;

in his, not in your time,

ecstasy will betray you.

 

 

 

If he cares,

he will flay you;

if he loves,

he will slay you.

 


	2. A Turn of the Screw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steven Rogers is trying to fit into this new time and figure out the enigma that is Natasha Romanov. Clint and Philip are juggling all the demands on their time and energies. 
> 
> And we all know that adding children to a ghost story is another turn of the screw

Natasha Romanov didn’t believe in true love or any of the romantic notions that filled far too many young girls’ head. Only those who had never worried about where their next meal came from had the luxury of believing that a lord would come one day and sweep them away.  She didn’t begrudge them their safe lives; on the contrary, knowing some people had families that fed them and clothed them and made good marriages for them taught her that the world wasn’t all dark.  But she’d never had a childhood; her earliest memories were of fear and bone-chilling cold. There was no room for fairytales when you’re huddled in an alley, trying to be as small as possible.

When she’d met a scrappy blonde boy in an alleyway, she’d never imagined the smart mouthed Clint Barton would change her life. From the first, they had a connection, nothing sexual, but something deeply affirming. Despite vastly different backgrounds, they knew violence, the kind that came from those who were supposed to love you the most. He never asked anything from her except what she was capable of giving; he understood her compulsion to help young girls just as she intuitively recognize his protection of bruised and battered boys. Clint gathered other lost souls as part of his impromptu family; Carol was first, kicked out and working as a hired sword, and Jessica, her cloak of humor to deal with darkness, just like Clint’s. Rag-tag boys who were constantly underfoot but as safe as Clint could make them. Followers who cooked and cleaned and were grateful for a place to sleep at night without worrying about whether they’d wake up in the morning.

“How was your trip?” Philip stopped in the stall’s doorway, careful to stay out of the range of Ivan’s hooves. Docile for Natasha, the horse was high strung for almost everyone else. Only Andrew, the stable master, was in the beast’s good graces.

When Clint had gotten the message that he was now Lord of the manor, they had arrived to find a broken holding, house in partial ruins, crumbled defenses and demoralized people. The first decision Clint made was to accept an arranged marriage in order to bring money into the coffers and protection of Lord Fury, one of the most powerful Lords in the Midlands.  Philip Coulson showed up on their doorstep, dusty from running ahead of Prince Loki of Asgard, and turned their lives upside down. A whirlwind of efficiency, Philip gained the people’s trust and brought the place back to life.  

“Frustrating.” She smiled at this man she’d come to trust in the eight months she’d known him. The fact that he loved Clint to distraction helped.   Theirs was really a love out of tales, a bond so profound that Natasha would believe it impossible except for the fact she had watched as the two men became closer and closer. The first mage in generations, Philip had connected with Clint and to them all, slotting in like a missing piece.

“No news on Stark?” Philip asked.  Missing for over three months, Lord Anthony Stark was proving elusive to find. Natasha had been following leads in Lord Tarelton’s kingdom; Virginia Potts, Stark’s chatelaine, had seen Tarleton’s men kidnap him.  

“Call me cynical, but why did they leave Pepper alive?” Natasha noticed things. Details, body language, minute changes. She watched and she saw and she gathered. That was her talent. All of her contacts in New Bern had heard nothing; a braggart who was impressed by his own brilliance, Tarleton couldn’t keep quiet if he was holding the richest Lord of the Midlands hostage.

“A misdirection?” Philip asked. “Someone who wants us looking the wrong way.”

She merely raised an eyebrow and let Philip draw his own conclusions; smart as he was, he’d reach the logical answer that this was part of the bigger problem. If anything, Natasha believed that Fate was a moody bitch who spun her wheel and laughed at the sufferings she dealt out. A moment of happiness was always followed by a downward turn; anyone who thought differently was delusional. Or, perhaps, she was just the ultimate realist. She respected people like that, who understood the world and accepted it. Bruce Banner, the clerk who had taken up residence in his newly built workshop and cottage with his wife of three months, didn’t resort to fantasy to cover up the hand he’d been dealt. Cursed to berserker rage, Bruce lived quietly, at peace now more than ever. That’s how Natasha wanted to be.

Used to Natasha’s silences, Philip filled in with his own voice. “You think the Sorcerer took Stark, like he tried to take Darcy and tried to get to Clint and me. Rounding up those who could be a danger to him. Tony may be obnoxious and disliked by his council, but he’s a genius, without doubt. I saw an armored carrier he invented to transport dangerous materials; the King refused to talk about using them, but Fury ordered a dozen for the powder and priming cord.”

A clatter of boots was followed by William and Theodore running into the stables. Laughter rang out as the boys released pent up winter energy, dashing into empty stalls and calling out to each other. Straw was stuck in William’s dark hair and along the back of his vest as Theodore tackled him and they rolled across the hard packed dirt floor, tickling each other. William got the upper hand for a few seconds and then Theodore upended them both, settling his knees on either side of William’s hips and holding his arms down. A tense silence hung in the air until Natasha cleared her throat. The boys jumped as if scalded, scrabbling up and brushing themselves off.

“Um, we were just …” Theodore started.

“We’re not shirking our duties, Lord Coulson,” William spit out quickly. “Annamarie told us to get out and run around some.”

Philip’s lip twitched. “Yes, I can see why. Perhaps the practice shed would be a better place? Get some sword work in while you’re at it. I believe Dooley is down there right now with the new recruits.”

“Yes, sir!” both boys shouted, grins splitting their faces as they rushed down the row for the main door. Nothing worked quite as well for incentives than telling them they could beat each other with wooden sticks.

“Dooley will have them sweating in no time.” Natasha tossed the brush into the basket and gave one last lingering stroke to Ivan’s nose. “Someone needs to have the talk with those two. Didn’t Theodore just turn 13?”

“Another month and he will be. William’s got another six months, but, yes, I’ve spoken to Clint about it. They idolize him; best he bring it up,” Philip said. It was a fact that girls were often married not long after their first monthly bleeding and boys grew up fast when it came to matters of sexuality. Sons of noble families might wait until their early twenties, sometimes even later, but they were sexually active long before that.

“And what was it Clint thought you should talk to me about?” She had a list of possibilities; Clint would have approached her if it was something about security or information she’d learned. Since it was Philip, she imagined the topic was more personal in nature. Clint didn’t like to talk about feelings any more than she did.

“Shall we walk?” Philip asked, moving when she nodded in agreement.  

The stable renovation was almost complete, Natasha realized as they strolled out into the fenced practice yard. Neatly side stepping melting puddles of snow, she felt the light warmth of an early spring sun, breaking through the last of the grey winter clouds. There would be more cold days and at least one more deep snow, according to the townsfolk, but even the wan sun lifted everyone’s spirits after a few months of living in a drafty manor house half-under construction.

Every time she left and returned, more renovations had been accomplished. The snug walls of the stable, both wings redone with space for tack rooms and living quarters that were more comfortable than the main house at the moment. An indoor practice room with high raftered ceiling and a smooth wooden floor; Philip had found mirrors somehow and lined a wall with the valuable silver backed sheets. Word was that Philip had used a spell from the new grimoire to protect them from any hits; having a mage in the household had its perks, it seemed. Bruce and Darcy’s new home had been an old threshing floor and barn unit; the fifteen minute walk from the main compound and its location on the edge of an expanse of farming land made it ideal for Bruce’s experiments. And there were new walls for the addition to the manor, wooden frames, layers of insulation and river stones patterned all the way to the top where joists were in place, covered by heavy tarps so the work inside could continue. She made a mental note to swing by and see if the pipes for the new plumbing had been laid; just the thought of one of Hank Pym’s rain baths with hot water made her muscles protest the long ride she’d just endured.

“Steven is awake,” Philip began as they took the path down the hill towards the guardhouse. “And he is very insistent on searching for Thane Barnes and the rest of his armor. As to be expected.”

“Steven?” Natasha poked gently at Philip’s ego. For a student of history, meeting the hero of myth Lord Steven Rogers had been more than a little off-setting for Philip. “When did you come to first name basis?”

Philip blushed; Natasha found it adorable that there was someone in this world like Philip. “I’ve been helping him acclimate to our time. There’s so much to learn, on both of our parts. So many things we’ve forgotten and ways in which people are different today. I’ve started writing down all the observations; one day I’ll write a book about what life was really like during the greatest generation.” He cleared his throat, his excitement bubbling in his voice. “The point being, we have far too many irons in the fire right now. The search for Lord Stark, as you know, is not progressing as fast as any of us would like. Rhodes is doing his best to hide Stark’s absence, appearing in public in his armor and filling in for him at events where he can wear a faceplate. Pepper is running herself ragged keeping up the appearance that Stark is in his lab working on a new project. But Fury has no leads either; we’re at a standstill. It’s as if he disappeared. Which, I know, is a possibility; there are spells for that but it would take a very strong magic user to cast them.”

“As long as we don’t know who really took him, we are shooting arrows in the dark,” Natasha agreed. As much as it galled her to admit, she had no idea what had happened to Anthony Stark.

“We still only have the one piece of Steven’s armor, his shield, and everyone is talking about splitting up to search for the rest.  Thor wants to head back to Asgard as soon as the mountain road is passable, and he wants to take Jane with him to meet his mother. Jessica volunteered to go as well.”

“Fandral has nothing to do with that.” Seems that the relationships that had been in their infancy had progressed in the last few weeks. “Still, Jess can provide both a chaperone and stand for Clint as his thane. The Fandral connection makes a good ulterior motive so they won’t look further.”

“Almost word for word what Clint thinks,” Philip replied. “It will be at least a month probably more before they can start out, so that’s the easy decision. But Steven wants to leave as soon as possible for the Cairns.”

“You’re worried about stretching us too thin.” She thought about it. A good strategy for their opponents would be to wait until they splintered off and attack the weakest link. “Agreed. We already have parties out looking for Stark. Carol will have argued against weakening our defenses any more. Clint probably wants to go with … ah, you want me to talk him out of running off with Rogers. Is he getting antsy? Never could stay in one place long.”

“He’s knee deep in planning the long campaign. This morning he said something about Kingston and swinging through the Outer isles.” Philip sighed, his frustration evident. “He’s a doer and I’m more of a homebody. There’s plenty enough challenge right here.”

“And that’s why we need you. Look, the Cairns are what, two weeks at the most?” She knew exactly what Clint was feeling, the restlessness that made her palms itch to hold a hilt, to see what was over the next hill. For her, it was the worry that the longer she stayed, the more likely her secrets were to be revealed. “If Thor agrees to wait and a few of the search parties return to satisfy Carol, he can go and be back while we’re still covered.”

“Well,” Philip hedged and Natasha knew she wasn’t going to like what came next. “Sam Wilson is heading that way in his tinker’s wagon; he usually starts his Burosey route this time of year anyway. It would make a perfect cover and kill two birds with one stone. Check the cairns and look for Stark. I’ve traveled with Sam before; Steven’s presence won’t raise any interest.”

So far, they’d kept the news that Lord Steven Rogers had stepped out of the past and into the present among a small group of people. Lord Fury knew; the man was almost as good as Natasha at knowing everything. But most believed that Rogers was a new fighter, albeit one of noble descent. With all the recruits for the guards and the new faces at the dining table, it was an easy enough story to sell. Everyone knew of the dangers they were facing; the more skilled warriors, the more likely they were to repel any attacks.

Hiding the dragon, however, had been a truly Herculean task. Roger’s steed, Zara, was an almost fully grown red dragon, a sight no one had seen for generations. Rogers himself had come up with the answer; as part of the underground network he and his thanes had used during the war with the Red Sorcerer, they’d developed caverns big enough to house her. One of them was under Frasierton Abbey; despite neglect and cave-ins, Carol and a small crew had gotten inside and found it mostly intact. Between elbow grease, heavy lifting by Zara herself, and some simple magic, they used the cloak of night to make her home habitable. It wouldn’t be long before someone noticed the missing sheep and the flapping sounds in the dark, but, for the moment, she remained protected.

“You need someone with undercover skills, two at the most. Sam doesn’t have that much room.”  A flare of anger and a knot of something cold weighed down her chest. “You want me to go with Rogers. Does Clint agree?”

“Natasha, whatever happens or what this bond may or may not be, you need to talk to Steven about it.” Philip stopped by the lower gate, turning to face her. “We both support your decision, no matter what it is. But you are the best spy we have and we need you on this one.”

When she wanted, Natasha could ignore physical pain for days if needed. Her control over her emotions was so good that people believed she felt nothing, calling her the Black Widow behind her back. Appearing and disappearing at will, she’d cultivated her reputation for protection; she’d promised herself that she would never let anyone hurt her again and she intended to keep it.

But then a mysterious soldier from the past had grabbed her wrist and his mark had cut right to the soul she thought impenetrable. She could feel the occasional twinge, a flash of emotion, at the strangest time, while eating Dax’s spicy stew for dinner or crawling beneath the branches of a fir for a few hours of sleep on the road. The second time James Barnes had touched her wasn’t the same; his fingers on her cheek had brought an onslaught of images or memories; she didn’t know what to call the scenes that inhabited the seconds between blinks. Some from her own past, the child dragged from her bed, the woman sewing herself back to together. But others weren’t. Creatures from legends and nightmares, her knives sinking into their flesh, her darts hitting their marks. Dark-haired, blue-eyed villains smiling at her, dark green looming shadows chasing her, flashes of silver as tools sliced and cut into her skin.

She didn’t want any of it, not two men from out-of-time telling her they’d been waiting for her or bonding marks or emotion-laden memories. They were wrong; she had no place in the greatest love story of all time, the very pattern for trust and fidelity and devotion. Philip was right; she needed to talk to Steven, explain that it was the magic of Margaret Carter’s spell that had him thinking this way. Get it settled once and for all. The last thing she wanted was to be distracted right now.

“Of course,” she agreed, voice calm and collected. “Give me a couple hours to replenish my pack.”

“Sam’s shooting for two mornings from now. Get some rest, sleep in your own bed. Dax is making lamb chops with garlic and dried tomatoes; whole place smells wonderful.”

“I certainly won’t say no to that. I’ve missed Dax’s cooking. Everything seems so bland now.”

* * *

 

Steven Rogers hated this feeling of weakness; getting his energy back was taking longer than he expected. Weeks in bed doing nothing but sleeping had been enough idleness. Too many memories of his childhood and the illness that kept him from growing strong like the other boys. Walking from the manor down to the practice field without getting out of breath had been a milestone; now he worked in a couple of hours a day swinging a sword, his muscles slowly remembering and limbering up. Today was a good day; with the sun outside and the open doors, the practice room was warm enough to break a sweat but cool enough to not get overheated.

“You’re distracted,” Carol said, seconds after she lunged at Steven’s left side, taking advantage of the way he’d dropped his elbow. “Thinking too hard again.”

He countered with a quick spin and, with three blows, drove the blonde back two steps. One of the guardsmen drew in a quick breath; everyone was watching, caught up in the sparring session.

“You pull to the left just before you lunge sometimes,” Steven told her. She was good, would have given anyone of his thanes a run for their money, even Bucky. Hell, she was pushing him to his limits and he was enjoying every drop of sweat running down his nose and trickling under his collar, feeling alive again as his muscles flexed and worked. “And you might want to watch the hair.”

“Hair?” She asked as she countered, a fierce push that would fold a lesser man, but Steven was ready for it, knew she would try to exert her authority. With a quick parry, he snagged the flying end of her braid and yanked her head back, throwing her just enough off balance for him to wrap her hair around his wrist. Like a tether he reeled her in, using her own strength against her, winding her body as she bent to free herself. He countered each twist with his own until she was bent double and dropped her sword.

“And here I thought you were a gentleman,” Carol said, her smile wide and friendly. “Rules of engagement and all that.”

“Don’t believe the stories.” Steven let her go and helped her up. He clapped her on the shoulder. “I’m a soldier. In battle, everything is fair game.”

“And that is your lesson of the day,” Dooley interjected, talking to the trainees and other guards including the two pages who had clattered in just seconds before.  “The goal is always to stay alive. Don’t let any assumptions or stupid ideas about rules of engagement get you killed. There’s no such thing as a gentleman on the battlefield. If they try to kill you, you kill them first.”

Steven was breathing hard as he caught up a rag to give his sword a swipe down before he slipped it into its sheath. Just as he picked up a towel, he felt the tug in his gut, a tiny niggle of awareness. Not Bucky. He felt like a buoyant wave, lifting Steven up, making the impossible possible. This was a stillness, like a pocket of water away from the current. Deep and dark and dangerous with hidden secrets.  Natasha Romanov; with only a phantom of an early bond, she had to be close for Steven to sense her.

“Good moves for an old guy,” Carol said, offering her hand. He took it gladly, happy to find such a good sparring partner. “Nothing like real battle experience.”

“It wasn’t that long ago for me,” Steven replied. He’d been fighting right up until he dove in that lake; to him, he’d gone under then resurfaced and no time had passed.

The door opened and Natasha came in, hair messy from the wind, roses in her cheeks. So lovely and so deadly, he thought, the juxtaposition of beauty and danger in one body. To find her now, in this new place and time, was such an irony; a missing piece that could only be by losing the other halves. It didn’t escape him that Bucky was gone and she appeared, that she found Bucky before Steven returned. Nor did it surprise him that she was resisting, shutting herself off from the bond, trying to remove herself from the equation.

None of that mattered when he looked at her; red curls, impossible green eyes, curves and muscles and a perfect bow of a mouth. Strength in every step, a mask of confidence that covered the myriad cracks in her spirit, put there by life and sewn back together by pure determination. He could see it, the red that spiraled around her like a cloak, power pulled tight as protection. His first instinct was to close the distance and touch her, fill the need to mark her as his. But he held back, aware that she didn’t want that, not yet. What he needed to do was woo her, win her trust.

“Steven.” Natasha nodded her head his way. They’d agreed that using his title would be a problem so he was Steven Buchanan, a traveling mercenary who was looking for work. Wasn’t a leap to assume that the new Lord Barton with all the reconstruction had a need for new hands. And it wasn’t unusual for a sick mercenary to be left behind by his troop if they were on the move. “I see Carol didn’t bruise you up too much.”  

“Are you kidding?” Carol asked, clapping Steve on the shoulder. “Took me down hard. Man’s got moves, I can tell you that much. Maybe I’ll have him start working with the next batch of recruits. I’ve been running ragged as it is.”

Natasha’s eyes missed nothing, not the way Carol smiled at Steven or the way she turned, so open and loose from their match. “That might be a good idea; you can definitely use the help. Jess says that you aren’t sleeping all that much as it is.”

“Comes with the territory. I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” Carol said with a laugh. “Someone’s got to get these guys in fighting form before the next wave. Now that the temperature is warming up, I expect we won’t have all that long to wait.”

“We’ll have a couple good snows before it stays warm,” Natasha said. “Annamarie’s predicting a cold snap for the weekend; she’s got the staff hopping, airing out rooms and refilling the pantry in the manor from the storehouses while they can. Philip’s lit a fire under the carpenters to get the underlayment on the roof in the next few days.”

“Sounds like things are busy around here,” Steven tossed in. “I’d be glad to do what I can to help out.”

“Be careful what you volunteer for,” Natasha warned. “If Carol doesn’t make you teach farm boys, then Philip will have you marking up ledgers. He always steals away those who can write and add sums. Now that Nila is handling the new library, Philip could use another scribe.”

“Oh, no, I’m not one for lines of numbers. Can’t stand sitting still that long. Now, sword fighting? That I can handle. I’ve trained quite a few warriors.” Steve really didn’t want to find himself stuck inside. He’d been inactive far too long. Reading a good story, that was fine. But writing tiny little letters and numbers all day?

“Don’t worry,” Carol said. “Philip can’t have you; I’ll talk to Clint about it tonight.”

“Actually, I think Clint has something in mind already.” Something in Natasha’s face said Steven might not like what he was about to hear. “I thought Steven might walk with me and I can explain.”

“Is this one of Clint’s schemes that is going to make more work for me?” Carol asked, her eyes narrowing.

“Probably,” Natasha replied.

“Damn it,” Carol cursed. She turned and caught William with his hand on one of the practice swords. “Alright you two,” she called. “Get your butts over here and let’s see if you remember anything I taught you.”

Steven grabbed his vest, slipping it on then buckling his sword belt on over it. The found clothes didn’t fit exactly right; he’d always had a problem with shoulder to waist ratio after his body changed, but he was happy to have the pieces he’d been given. He’d never owned that much, not even after the King had given him his title. There was really no time and neither he nor Bucky had the luxury of spending their days overseeing lands. The money he’d earned was banked for the future; he bought what he needed, paid for softer pallets and bed rolls for the men, made sure they had food and equipment. But he’d honestly never expected to be around to spend the gold; old soldiers rarely got to retire and live a happy life. So starting over with nothing wasn’t that daunting. Steven wanted to pay for his upkeep, and both Clint and Philip had immediately agreed Steve could trade work for room and board. That was enough for him.

“Carol’s a good leader,” he said to break the silence; he fell in beside Natasha as they left the practice room. “What is her gift?”

“A word of warning,” Natasha said. “We don’t call it a gift anymore and most people prefer to live with blinders on when it comes to magic. Something simple – Clint’s perfect aim, Philip’s organizational acumen, Carol’s leadership and fighting –we just call a skill. More than that, well, we just ignore it.”

“That’s going to take some getting used to,” Steve acknowledged. “In my day, everyone was identified early; it was a great honor to be selected for training.”

“Identified?” Natasha’s nose wrinkled as if the word had a bad taste. “And they were never wrong?”

The question made Steven pause, stop and look directly at her. “Yes. Sometimes. We weren’t perfect like the stories make us out to be. There are always those who are out for themselves, the ones who crave power. You know that.”

“Good. We have no room for fantasies of days gone by.” She nodded and kept walking. “We leave in two days, riding with Sam Wilson. Our route will take us by the Cairns and we can also look for Anthony Stark. You can do undercover work?”

“I can.” Steve felt the stirring in his gut that always happened before any action. A mission. That’s what he needed.

* * *

 

Clint Barton watched the workmen crawl on the roof, placing underlayment, working even as the sun waned. The window in what would be the Lord’s suite was open; glass would be the last detail to be added. But there was a floor and walls, a large fireplace roughed in between the bedroom and the bathing room. A cistern was suspended in the stone work, piping running down from what would be the ceiling. A big tub with its own set of drains and a rain shower bath; Clint’s mother would have adored a room like that. The bath had always been her escape; Clint couldn’t say he blamed her for retreating to her room.

But his mother’s rooms had been destroyed in the attack two years ago and he was glad that Phil had decided to relocate their own suite in the brand new part of the manor. Too many ghosts buried beneath the rubble of the ancient Frasier family home.

“I know you don’t want to miss dinner.” Phil stepped through the doorway and walked up behind Clint. “The hall’s pretty full; they’ll start rioting if we don’t go down soon and let them eat.”

“By summer we’ll be sleeping in here with the balcony doors open to catch the mountain breeze,” Clint said. “I see the bookshelves are going up in the library, your favorite room.”

“Wait until you see the desk and the comfortable chairs in there.” Phil smiled and slid his arms around Clint’s waist. “And the bed for here. Big, wide, soft bed.”

“We’ll still sleep in the middle,” Clint laughed, covering Phil’s hands with his own. “You want easy access.”

“You’re the cuddler,” Phil countered. The magic stirred at the closed circle of touch, more focused now that Phil was learning to control and use it.

“We could break the room in now,” Clint turned his head and dropped a light series of kisses along Phil’s jaw. A rumble sounded in the distance. “Thunder snow? Really, Phil?”

“What can I say? You drive me to distraction.”

The kiss was deep, the familiar contours of Phil’s mouth fitting perfectly with Clint’s. So easy for the fire to jump to life between them; it was never really gone, a bank of coals fanned by touch and trust and a deepening respect.

A roar of laughter came from somewhere; Thor’s voice carried on the wind. The kiss ended, Clint leaning back into Phil for one more moment. “Promise me you won’t be up late with manor business. I agreed not to run off with Natasha and Sam, so I deserve a whole night with you. In our bed. No interruptions.”

“She wasn’t all that happy, but she agreed,” Phil told him. “Just like you said she would. She knew, of course, that it was your idea.”

“And I’m sure I’m going to get an earful about playing matchmaker.” Clint laughed. “Just because you got lucky, she’ll say, doesn’t mean you have the right to play Lord in my life.”

“Something tells me that Steve will take matters into his own hands soon enough. He’s practically back to full strength, so very fast, and itching to get going. I don’t think Nat stands a chance,” Phil said.

“Barnes is the wild card. To think, so many years controlled by a sorcerer. Kept on ice and brought out to do his bidding.” A chill ran up Clint’s spine, the memory of Loki’s attempts to cast his own spell on both Clint and Phil too fresh. “I hope Nat and Steve can pull him back.”

“I’d go to hell and back for you,” Phil admitted, his magic spilling through their bond, stirring up the music in Clint’s head.

“I love you too,” Clint said, stealing one last kiss. “Now we’d better go or they’ll start without us. Dax’s lamb chops are more important than our presence.”

As he turned to go, Clint caught a hint of movement in the corner of his eye, a shimmer darting through the rebuilt rooms across the way. A distant melody, sweet and slow, just a few haunting notes of a very old song played in his ear.

“Did you see …” He asked then shook his head. “Never mind. Probably just one of the workers heading down to the hall.”

They took the scaffolding stairs and crossed what would be the new courtyard and garden space, the most direct way, rather than going through the old section.

Framed in the window, a figure watched them go.

* * *

 

Lord Anthony Stark stared at the metal pieces laid out on the work table, a myriad of shapes and sizes, some covered in orange rust, others in the green patina of time. One by one, he had been cleaning them, studying them, trying to understand what they did and how they fit together. The whole room was filled with parts spread out under the glowing magical lanterns that cast light in the cavernous space.

His chest hurt where the wound never seemed to heal, raw red skin around the edges of the brand that kept him alive. He’d woke to searing pain, a hand sinking in his flesh, crawling inside of him and ripping into his very soul. Magic of a dark kind that Anthony had never heard of, trying to take his mind and bend him to another’s will. How he’d fought back, he didn’t truly comprehend. As the icy cold fingers neared his heart, he’d slammed his own palm to his chest; a blue flash, power flowed into him, and a shield sprang to life. He’d burned right into his body some kind of protective talisman; in the dark of night in his cell, it provided light and hope that he was going to survive this ordeal.

“My Master wishes to know of your progress.” The Green Knight, as Anthony had taken to calling the fellow who never took off his distinctive armor, simply appeared beside him. That used to make him jump, but he was getting used to random visitors. “He is growing impatient.”

At first, Anthony didn’t know what to make of the knight; a voice and messenger, he’d seemed no more than a tool of the sorcerer who held Anthony captive. But lately, the Green Knight had lingered, talking to Anthony about mechanics and ideas. That was Anthony’s task; rebuild and restart this behemoth of a machine. It had taken a whole week before he realized that its sole purpose was to generate power by using water, much like a mill’s water wheel but on a much bigger scale. The amount of power it could create was mind-boggling; Anthony could think of nothing that would need that level of energy.

“I’ve got the coils cleaned and ready to be reinstalled and I think I may know where these circuits go,” Anthony pointed to a series of fuses and boards. “But as I said before, some of this is beyond repair and the rest, well, I’ve never seen the likes of it. Even if I can get it reassembled, there’s no way to power the machine. It’s useless.”

“Your magic is sustaining a perpetual shield,” the Green Knight said, nodding to the glowing handprint that showed even through Anthony’s shirt. “Why could magic not make the wheels turn in this?”

Magic as an energy source. Anthony had been fiddling with that idea for the last few years, keeping his trials very quiet for fear the Men of Letters would find out. He might be a man of science himself, but Anthony was open to every possibility. His father was the one who had been stuck in his beliefs, unable to see the truth under his own nose. Anthony knew magic was real; he’d manifested his own abilities when he was three-years-old.

“The amount needed would be immense,” Anthony replied, but he was already chasing down a possibility, a crazy idea that just might work. “It would help if I knew what he wanted this for.”

“Best you do not know, Anthony Stark.” The Green Knight had a strange speech pattern; something about it niggled in Anthony’s head, just on the edge of understanding. “Even I know only parts of the Master’s plans.”

“And you don’t approve.” That much, Anthony had gleaned from their conversations. “Destruction and killing doesn’t seem to be part of your make up.”

“If that is what you believe, you are wrong. I am quite capable of taking life; it is part of my mission, to fulfill my Master’s commands.” He picked up a cog, turning the circle over in his gauntleted hands. “But it is true that I prefer observing humanity. So much to learn and understand. This machine, for example. So many parts, so complex, and yet it has survived centuries waiting to be put back to work. You make such interesting things and think so little of your own accomplishments.”

“I think you’ve got me mixed up with someone else. I’ve got no problem taking the credit.” Anthony couldn’t help the harsh laugh that came from his throat. Everyone knew that Lord Anthony Stark was an arrogant genius who just wanted attention.

“You hide your compassion.” The Green Knight tilted his head, light shining off the curve of his helm. “Pretend to be what you are not. This I do not understand, but see so often. Perhaps the lack of faith in self is a prerequisite for great skill and sacrifice?” He paused then changed the subject. “You have little time. The Master has already begun the next offensive. Days, not weeks, Anthony Stark.”

He’d never been that blunt before; Anthony filed the warning right next to the tiny shrieking voice in his head that told him his clock was ticking down. “I’ll be ready,” he promised.

“Good.” The Green Knight gave a quick nod of his head. “Now I must turn my attention to the past. Even the strongest warrior cannot guard against the evils that haunt them.”

Gone as quickly as he came, Anthony sagged down onto a stool. He thought of Pepper, lying in the corridor, the last time he’d seen her. He thought of Rhodey who he knew was out searching for him. And he thought of all the things he’d learned from his captors, knowledge that made his scar burn hot and bright on his chest.

His real project was almost complete; he was getting out of the cave one way or another. Even if he had to fight every one of his demons to do so.

* * *

 

“Momma, Momma, Momma.” Hands tugged on Annamarie’s skirt as she hurried down the hallway, dancing around servers with full platters heading into the hall and those with empty ones returning to the kitchen. The main course had just been served and desert was next, little cups of custard with honey drizzle. She’d tucked a few aside for the staff to eat later.

“Momma’s busy right now, dear.” She didn’t have time, not with orchestrating the busiest time of the meal. “I’m working.”

“But Momma, this is important,” her son objected. Her beautiful twins, just turned twelve-years-old. Despite the circumstances of their birth, she loved them both beyond distraction. The fact that their father had little interest in more than a night of pleasure had no bearing on their lives. Annamarie’s mother had adored the two, her extended family accepting them without question. She was very lucky to have such support; now that she was the chatelaine of Barton Manor, her voice respected and included in all matters of the holding, she could make a good life for them.

“Just a little bit longer,” she promised.

“Okay.” They sounded disappointed, but she’d make it up to them. Rachel was planning cinnamon rolls for the morning, and she was going to bake a test batch of the new recipe tonight. The twins deserved a treat. “We’ll ask Nana.”

Two servers almost crashed into each other as they passed through the archway; Annamarie grabbed a silver platter before it slid off. “Slowly, people. No need to rush,” she instructed them, helping one balance their tray. “Better food on the table than the floor.”

It hit her as she turned to the kitchen. Nana? What were they talking about? It bothered her enough that she walked down the hall. Turning the corner, she saw them down near the servants’ rooms, walking together, heads bent close, hands swinging.

“Wanda?” She called. “Pietro?”

They paused and glanced back with smiles. Behind them, the shadowy shape coalesced into a form, achingly familiar face smiling at them both.

“Mother?” Annamarie whispered, a terrible fear gripping her heart. “Is that you?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I've known who Annamarie's kids were going to be for awhile now. And don't think I've forgotten a certain pair of hunters ... who else knows more about ghosts?


	3. Something Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past is coming back to haunt the heroes. Literally. And new faces bring illumination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thoughts and prayers go out to my lovely Beta who is struggling through an emotional time. Love you, baby. 
> 
> I'm posting this pre-betaing; I've read it through multiple times, but I suck at catching my own mistakes. As soon as she gets to her read through, I'll update with the edit.

_“That was a stupid move, Rogers.”_

_The cold wind ruffled her brown hair, curls absently separating and dancing about her face. Behind her, the mountain was covered in a layer of white, snow drifting down in random sized flakes. Steven shivered in his short sleeve shirt, sleep pants, and bare feet._

_“Yes, you told me so.” Steven’s lips curled up at the familiar glint in her eyes. She always could tell him he was an idiot without just one look. “But it worked. What’s a few thousand years frozen between friends?”_

_Lady Margaret Carter wrinkled her nose and tilted her head. “Barnes might not agree.” She paused, staring out across the vista, down the rolling hills towards the Midlands. “He’s been waiting a long time.”_

_“Yes.” Steven thought of nothing else in the deep dark of the night; it was no surprise he was dreaming his worries now, dragging Peggy into his subconscious brain. “He’s different, feels … colder, harder, heavier somehow. That’s when he lets me near enough to sense him.”_

_“Now is not the time to push.” Margaret patted the edge of the bed, urging Steven to sit down and stop his pacing across the room. “I know you. You want to face it head on, solve the problem. But that may not be the best strategy.”_

_“I think I’ve heard that advice before,” he admitted, settling next to her. “As usual you’re probably right.”_

_“You know I am. That’s why I’m here. Because you never listen.” Margaret turned, light spilling onto her face from the opening behind Steven. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he could make out rocks and walls and smooth floor. “I’m happy you found her.”_

_A flicker of sadness darted through her dark brown eyes, a regret that Steven shared. “You would like her. So strong and resilient. Natasha is …”_

_A shape rose up in the darkness, indistinct at first then coalescing into something tall with spindly arms. Like a shadow, it crept across the walls, closing the distance to where Margaret stood._

_Steven tried to lunge forward but he couldn’t move. “Behind you!”_

_The mass was on her in a blink; she didn’t have time to scream before it overwhelmed her. She reached out, fingers spread wide, but then she dissolved into a thousand tiny dots of color, swept deep into the blackness._

“Peggy!” Steven sat up in bed, her name on his lips, a shout between sleep and waking. Covered in sweat, Steven was panting, his chest heaving with the fright that coursed along his nerves, making his hands shake and his head pound. He tried to focus, the banked fire casting few shadows in his room; they all seemed to be moving, darting away from wherever he looked. He could barely grab the matches and strike one, needing to take a deep breath before he could hold it steady enough to light the candle by the bed.

“Steven?” The quiet voice came from the other side of the door, only a light knock before she spoke. Natasha pushed it open a crack and slipped around the edge. “I heard you call out.”

Her calm washed over Steven, and his heart slowed its frantic gallop enough for him to speak. “Bad dream. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Nightmares, I understand.” So far away even though she was only feet from the bed, Natasha hesitated. Her wall was down, the one she used to keep herself protected, and Steven could feel her doubts and, beyond them, the tightly constrained hope. He yearned to reach for her, knowing a touch would help them both. But he didn’t want to push. Peggy had been right on that count. Like always. “ Sometimes putting it out in the air frees your brain from its hold.”

“I …” A hint of the terror came back, Margaret’s brightness being extinguished flashing in his mind. “Would you listen? I don’t think I can go back to sleep.”

“Of course.” She crossed the short expanse, easing onto the far corner of the bed, leaning back against one of the end posts. Close enough that, as she extended her legs, Steven could feel the weight through the covers. In the candlelight, her hair glowed crimson among the messy curls, loose and free, and she pushed a tendril back from her face, porcelain skin filled with the rosy blush of sleep.

“I woke you.” His dream had bled into hers. With no more than Bucky’s mark, their bond was already growing in ways that were new and unique. Steven had always shared dreams with James and, later, after she’d come into her full power, Margaret had been able to communicate that way but when she did, she was open to attack … “That’s it. I never listen. That’s what she said.”

“Margaret Carter.” Natasha didn’t sound surprised. “I saw her or at least I think I did. Somewhere dark, underground. It took her, the darkness.”

“It’s a spell she used to use to contact me. Dreamwalking. Astral projecting, I think was another term for it. Part of her soul left her body and that made her vulnerable.” He’d always insisted she be careful, have people to protect her.

“Phil did that once, to find us in the middle of a storm. He not only talked to Clint but jumped forward in time,” Natasha said. “He used their bond to find Clint and his family relationship with Darcy, but he was awake when he did it.”

“Emotional ties make it easier. That’s why it worked for Margaret and me, but not Bucky.” He saw Natasha’s eyebrow raise at that nugget of information. “Phil has to be very strong to do a waking walk.”

“That’s what Bruce said,” Natasha agreed. “So you dreamed of Margaret. What did she tell you? If we’ve learned anything, it’s to pay attention to dreams.”

Steven looked her right in the eyes as he answered. “That she told me that her plan would work and that I shouldn’t push either you or Buck. I should let you come to me rather than chase you.”

“Smart woman.” The corner of Natasha’s lips curled up. “She told me that I could trust you and that taking care of people was just your way of saying you liked them.”

The thought of those words coming from Margaret’s lips drove the last of the dream’s chill away. “She’d definitely say that. Gods, but she hated my hero impulse, as she called it. She hated anyone thinking she couldn’t take care of herself. Very much like you in that respect.”

“You weren’t lovers.” Natasha had figured that much out. Tucking her legs up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around herself, resting her chin on her knees. “But you were close.”

“It was always Bucky for me, even before the potion. Peggy was, well, bonds were new then. We didn’t really understand how they worked. Most people believed they were like marriages and could be arranged. Peggy and I were well-matched; after the first few battles with the troop, the assumption was that we would eventually bond. But she was more like a copy of myself; Buck always called her my twin. She was a natural born leader; men fell in line to follow her. We were pretty damn good together.” Talking was helping; the more he spoke, the more he relaxed.

“I think I can understand that. Clint drives me crazy sometimes, but he’s family for me, not the same as what Clint has with Phil. Or anywhere near the great love story of Rogers and Barnes.” Natasha was good at this, directing the conversation to where she wanted it to go and always away from herself. For the moment, Steven let her.

“I couldn’t believe it when Phil told me the stories. They make us out to be some sort of star-crossed lovers or some other romantic ideal.” Steven snorted; just the thought of them as the pattern for future generations made him want to laugh. “We fought when we were young. He was an overbearing little snot when he wanted to be and I was a whiny brat a lot of the time. When he was tested and joined the army, I was so damn jealous; told him I was going to run off and be a better soldier than he was. He read me the riot act and ordered me to stay home. Not exactly the perfect picture of loving bliss.”

“That’s good to hear.” Natasha blinked a few times,  her eyelids sinking. She was obviously tired too. “I don’t trust those tales. No one’s really like that.”

“And, of course, men who prefered other men? Not exactly accepted. That’s one of the pleasant surprises of your time.” He closed his eyes as he spoke, extending an arm out to one side, dropping his hand off the edge of the bed. The other he folded at the elbow and rested his palm on his forehead. “When things got really bad, we were able to drop the pretense. No one cared whose blanket you rolled up in, just that you had their backs. Always wondered what was going to happen when we all went home.”

“Doesn’t sound like there’s room for a third there, Rogers.” Natasha’s voice was softer, but the sarcasm was plain; eyes barely cracked, Steven could see her face soften. “You’re a hopeless romantic, admit it.”

“I’m a realist. Bucky and I … well, we both changed. For me, it was the potion I took. Bucky had to learn how to deal with Lord Rogers instead of Sickly Steven, reconcile the two. And Buck? He was captured and they did things, experimented on him. He called that new part of himself The Soldier; he answered to James, was more focused than before. Four pieces instead of two, and we didn’t all fit. There were gaps that needed filling. Someone who could understand the Soldier and didn’t see Sickly Steven when they looked at me.” He stayed perfectly still when she moved, not twitching as she curled up next to him, her head on outstretched arm, space between their bodies. “Someone who could stand beside us, an equal, step between us when we fought, hold the line behind us and watch our backs. Someone who finished the circle.”

“You’re dreaming if you think that’s me,” she murmured. He slowly bent his arm until his hand rested on her shoulder; she didn’t protest and he waited until her breathing slowed and evened out.

“I know it’s you,” he murmured just before he drifted back to sleep.

* * *

 

Philip had always been an early riser; he enjoyed the quiet hours before others roused when so much could be accomplished without interruption. Darkness of the long nights of winter, hallways half in shadow, lit only by occasional lamps in the main parts of the house. Sounds from the kitchen, the scrape of utensils, rosey glow of the fire through the doorway.

Crawling out of bed was harder when Clint was sprawled on top of him, legs tangled together, his weight a comforting cover, heat against the cold. The touch of his bonded was as restful as sleep, and sometimes Phil would lie in the cocoon of the blankets and look at his husband. Listen to his breathing and trace the curve of Clint’s back. Spend long minutes sensing the feedback of the energy that always flowed between them, stronger when they touched.

This morning he’d needed the comfort of Clint’s calloused hand in his own. Magic came with dreams, and last night had brought a mixture of familiar faces and shades of the unknown; he’d been left feeling unnerved by strange conversations with his grandfather and mother. He almost didn’t want to leave the safe space of their bed, the chill of the stone floor beneath his feet an ominous portent. But there was work to be done; Philip wanted to push the workers to get as much of the roof completed as they could before the weather turned cold again. The ledgers didn’t balance themselves; even with the amount of help available, he still preferred to do some work himself. So he pushed aside the lingering concerns and, with a cup of coffee from the pot Dax had ready, settled into the room that was serving as his study, far too cramped with all the books and extra chairs, the first red leather bound tome open on the small writing desk.

The first feeble rays of sun slanted through the one window, lightening the old storage room. Philip worked steadily, the neat line of numbers giving him comfort; they added up perfectly after a few minor checks. No magic needed to balance the intake with the outflow, just facts and figures to be wrestled into place. Their money wasn’t unlimited; Lord Fury had invested Philip with a hefty dowry and Clint’s own coffers were filled with gold from his mercenary days. Plus, there were new revenue streams Philip was exploring; Darla and Sophia’s loom was up and working, the fine wool from the McCarters being turned into bright and colorful cloth. Right now, the money was going out, but the long history of Frasier woolens was going to make a profit within two years, Philip estimated.  Other Lords might eschew business, but Philip knew what it was like to grow up without money. As much as he might have now, he’d never forget watching his mother scrimp and save to maintain the illusion of nobility.

The movement caught in the corner of his eye, dragging his attention away from the notation about Hank Pym’s improved apple press’ projected costs. His shoulders bent and his gait slowed with age, a man crossed the open doorway. A hat covered most of his face, just a curve of cheek and wrinkled jawline obvious in the low light. In a few steps, he was gone from view, and Philip paused for a moment, trying to pull a name from his memory. Knowing the people of the manor was one of Philip’s long-term goals. It bothered him that he couldn’t immediately recall the older gentleman; Philip couldn’t put his finger on where he knew him. Then he sighed, let it go, and picked up the pile of correspondence that still needed his attention.

Nila was an excellent judge of what needed his attention and what could be dealt with by others, but Philip still had quite a stack of letters to get through on a daily basis. First up was one from Maria; she wrote of troop training, May’s plan for the herb garden, how quiet the castle was without Peter and Darcy around. Between the lines, Philip could read his sister’s tension at the winter lull, her concern that danger was just around the corner. Fury’s letter was much the same, more details about what was happening at court, the discord that Loki was sewing among the nobles, how King Donaldson was firmly under the Asgardian’s thrall. A series of notes followed from various other Lords inviting Clint and his new groom to all kinds of events, summer fetes to tournaments. Philip culled through those and picked out two or three that he thought Clint would hate the least. They’d have to make a few appearances or risk being ostracized. Best to know what the rumor mill was churning out than find out too late.

Peter wrote almost weekly of his life at university. He and Hank Pym were fast becoming friends, comrade-in-arms in their studies. Funny stories and complaints about workload couldn’t hide the fact that Peter was both thrilled to be immersed in new knowledge and also frustrated by what he called antiquated notions of the professors. He’d been denied access to parts of the library, and Hank had run into resistance for his own designs. The bias against mechanics and engineering was alive and well, it seemed. Still, Philip always enjoyed Peter’s missives; they never failed to make him laugh.  

Reports from the various Lairds came next. Melinda McCarter wrote in lieu of her husband, looping script that curved in half-circles along the page, yellow wax seal and stamp on the outside. She detailed clean up efforts from fall’s battle, the number of sheep lost to the wargs that were still harrying their lands, and the latest great grandchild. Laird Thomas told of tree growth and the number of pregnant cattle that portended an early spring and a good summer. From the Frasiers came good news that the storehouse design Philip had provided had survived an ice dam on the roof without losing a single bit of grain for spring planting.

Two letters remained; one with the royal seal and the other completely unfamiliar to Philip. He chose the one he knew first, breaking the red wax with trepidation. The gold script of the royal scribe was unmistakable as was the summons to court. Philip had been expecting this; they’d flown in the face of the King’s wishes not once, but twice, first when Philip had married Clint and then when Darcy was wed to Bruce. No matter how eloquently stated, this was not a request, but a command performance to show themselves before King who, Philip was certain, would have words for them all. For a brief moment, Philip entertained the image of Bruce going berserk right there in the main chambers; as satisfying an idea as that was, Philip knew it would be the worst response. No, they would have to present themselves and take the King’s displeasure without a word in their defense. The deeds were done and there was no going back, not with all the official church paperwork filed; Prince Thor had actually been a witness to Bruce and Darcy’s union. Denying the validity of either of their marriages wasn’t possible. They’d survive a few weeks at court. The problem was going to be finding a time to leave the hold. Probably Loki’s idea; with a word in the King’s ear, he could drag them away when they needed to be here.

Laying aside the summons, Philip took up the last parchment, breaking the blue seal.

_Lord Philip Coulson Barton,_

_I take it upon myself to write without an introduction for I feel that I have come to know you through your honorable actions over the course of the last months. No doubt as my son Thor has already told you, we share a bond of magic, you and I; ‘tis true I would have welcomed you as a son had things worked out that way. However, I am sure that the road you walk now is the one of your destiny and not my other son’s designs._

_I find myself beset by dreams of late, of crossroads and splintered paths, fates not decided. Desperate threads yet to be woven, a tapestry of colors and gifts that, as of now, are at the mercy of the winds that bring darkness from the past. At the center of it all, a gathering of colors and sounds, a music building; some there, others yet to come. My mind is unsettled but I can do no more than warn you of what you already know. Danger is near, perhaps among you even now, present and yet absent._

_Tell the Soldier that he is needed and the Sleeper will return soon. Remind the Hawk that he is more than the sum of his past. Be sure the Hunters are on the right trail and the Captain doesn’t lose her way. Take care of yourself as well; you and your sister need to remember that your power is not unlimited._

_Please pass along the note enclosed to my son, Thor. As much as I wish to meet this lovely young Scholar he has fallen for, a visit home will have to wait. I am sending Sif with the rest  of the Warriors Three as they will be needed soon._

_F_

_P.S. The brooch is lovely. I wear it often._

Philip sat the letter down, carefully taking the smaller missive that was inside the first and putting it on the edge of the desk. Then, he poured over the words from the Queen of Asgard again. The names she used jumped out at him; digging through the second drawer down, he pulled out the text of an old children’s rhyme, a prophecy from the past.

The Dead quake, the Hawk quivers,

The Sleeper wakes, and the Soldier shivers.

Then comes the Mage to bring a new age.

 

The Spiders bite, the Wasp stings,

The Ant fights, and the Stones sing.

Then comes the Voice to give us all choice.

 

The Beast roars, the Scholar sighs,

The Falcon soars, and the Prince flies.

Then two becomes three to set him free.

 

The Lord hacks, the Gambler deals,

The Hunters track, and the Captain kneels.

Then stories will be told of bonds new and old.

 

A chill crept along his skin, the hairs on his arms standing on end as unease crawled up towards his chest. He breathed out and ice crystals formed, a cloud of frosty air in front of his face. The candles flickered and the fire dwindled; the temperature dropped in the room and Philip shivered, his fingers trembling. Something drew his eyes upward, lifting from the paper.

The man from the hall was standing just inside the doorway, facing Philip. Grizzled grey whiskers, skin wrinkled with sun and age. Watery blue-grey eyes, staring at Philip, unblinking and unwavering.

“Can I help you?” Philip asked through chattering teeth. So familiar, Philip tried to put a name to the face, but it was just out of reach.

No answer. The man stayed where he was, neither leaving nor moving forward.

“What do you want?” Philip stood, pushing away from the desk. His magic crackled down his arms and out into the wooden edge through Philip’s fingers. Static danced in the air. Books shook, pages flipping open, and the chairs rattled legs against the stone floor.

The man lifted his arm, reaching a veiny hand towards Philip. Taking two steps, Philip slowly lifted his own hand. Purple sparks ran along his fingers, and the man’s aura solidified, a lilac that glowed ever so faintly.

“Who are you?” Philip half-breathed, half-asked.

A single bolt of energy arced from Philips middle fingertip to the old man’s and then Philip’s vision went black.

* * *

 

He woke from the dream, completely alert in seconds, his chest heaving as if he’d been running for his life. The weight of his exhaustion tried to pull him back down into the darkness where he never rested. Sleep was an enemy to fight against, just like the memories that haunted him in both his lucid and dreaming moments. He wasn’t sure which was worse, the bone deep weariness that slowed him down and made his mind foggy or the pure terror behind his closed eyes that shot adrenaline through his system and left him worse off than before.

From the light slanting through the cracks in the boards, James guessed it was before sunrise. The air had a distinct chill; the hay he’d laid down did little to warm him against the light breeze slipping into the barn. He needed to get up, get going, before the farmer who owned the structure started the morning feedings. Pushing up, despite the protest of his aching arm and shoulder, James gave his hair a perfunctory brush with his fingers, gathered his things, and took the ladder two rungs at a time. He’d chosen this place because the forest skirted along one side; he need only to exit through a side door, and he’d be lost in the tree line in seconds; he paused only long enough to buckle on his sword belt and check his other weapons before he was on the move. Breakfast was a stolen bit of bread left from two nights back and a drink of icy water from a nearby mountain stream where he splashed his face to chase away the last sleepy vestiges. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a warm bath or when he’d done more than a quick wash. Sometimes he thought about a big metal tub with water so hot his skin turned bright red. Completely naked, a bar of scented soap that didn’t scrape his skin off, staying submerged until his fingers wrinkled and the water went cold. That was his second favorite daydream, the one he had most often; his favorite, Steven’s body laid out next to his, he used to rarely let himself imagine .

That had changed, of course, now that Steven was back. Seeing him, hearing his voice, stirred the bond and made ignoring the punch of desire impossible. The blue thread wound around james, trailing off to the north, alive and thrumming with familiar energy. Like a siren call, Steven’s magic promised a place to lay his head, safety and love. James struggled against it, shutting down the flow of Steven’s power; he didn’t want the backwash of his own emotions, the fear and anxiety, to reach across the distance. But resisting was becoming an impossible task as the blue mixed with the fainter red, growing stronger with each passing day.

Touching Steven again had been the last key to free James completely. Natasha Romanov’s mark started the process, shaking James from his programming. Now, for the first time James’ mind was his own in, well, he truly had no idea how long he’d been under the sorcerer’s control. The nightmares chased him every waking moment, but at least they were his to own.The eyes of the dead seemed to follow him everywhere, looking over his shoulder. There’d be no running from them, no magical darkness of cold sleep to hide in any more.

The Lord blocked his path, standing just on the rise past the creek, as out of place in the snowy forest as a Lady of the Court in a pig stye. Gold thread edged his leather jacket, the height of fashion ten years ago. Boots polished to a shine, nary a scuff mark or a mar. Such an imposing man in life, his face was washed out, eyes dull, a pen and pencil drawing of himself.

“Lord Stark.” James stopped at the creek bank. “You have something to say?”

Howard Stark, father of Anthony, one time Lord of Burosey, tilted his head as if he was trying to hear better. The dead man’s eyes flicked over James’s shoulder just as the icy cold blast of air surrounded James whose breath became a white fog. Carefully, James put one foot in the freezing water and then the other, his toes feeling the change even though his boots were waterproof. Only then did James turn his head to find Lady Maria Stark just behind him, her lovely face marred by confusion.

“Lady Stark.” James inclined his head as ice began to form on the surface of the creek and crystals in the wet tendrils of hair from his morning wash.

Opening his mouth, Stark grew angry when nothing came out, his face clouding over. Static began to build, golden sparks jumping from Stark to the ground. He reached his arm out; from the corner of James’ eye, he saw Lady Stark do the same. Electricity connected from hand to hand, James in the middle. He threw up his arms to protect himself; his own magic spread like a shield around him, white as a blizzard of cold. Power clashed and James dropped to his knees, soaking his leather pants and his gloves as he braced himself, trying to keep his body out of the icy water.

“Murderer.” The one word was mangled, distorted; Lord Stark stepped closer and released a second burst of energy, stronger than the first. James tried to deflect it, but the static, gold tinged with black, swarmed over him, burning along his skin and into his clothes. He reached out, threw open the bond and let Steven’s power wash over him. Blue swirled into James’ white; red curled around the edges, and the shield grew impenetrable then pushed back, a curtain of energy that swept out, slamming into the figures. Their visage melted, Howard and Maria giving way to a dark seething mass that writhed before it blew apart.

Wet and shivering, James picked himself up, breaking the ice that crawled up his sleeve. Around him, the forest was early morning quiet, all trace of whatever the apparitions had been erased. Only the echo of magic was left, a slight shimmer in the air.

*Bucky?* Steven, their mental union slipping back as easy as breathing, called his name.

*Get ready* James thought in return. *They’re coming*

* * *

 

Steven woke with his partner’s name on his lips and Natasha’s weight on his chest, a deep sense of foreboding bursting anew. His dream of Margaret and now contact with James meant events were cascading faster, one after the other; the little spot in the middle of his shoulder blades was itching. He needed to be up and going.

“Was that James?” Natasha’s green eyes opened.

“The bond.” Steve nodded. The impulse to get out of bed was mitigated by Natasha’s body curled around his, and the logical voice in his head reminding him to slow down and think. “He’s been shutting me out so I can’t find him but he needed to draw on the connection. Whatever hit him, it was big and powerful.”

She pushed away, her breasts brushing along Steve’s side as she sat up and swung her feet over the edge of the bed. “I saw … flashes. Blue and white. Gold. Black. Felt the cold seeping in.” As if she’d just remembered, she rubbed her hands along her arms, shivering.

“Everyone’s magic is different; most people see it as colors. Clint’s purple, Phil is the color of lightning.  Bruce is green and Darcy’s cranberry. You’re red like a rose in full bloom.” Steve didn’t bother hiding his aroused cock as he got up; it was morning and he’d slept with a beautiful woman in his arms. She glanced down, noticed, then stepped back a pace to give him room.

“Someone attacked him,” she said and her face hardened, settling into her usual mask. “We can’t wait a couple of days. We need to leave now.”

Ignoring his body’s response to her nearness, Steven let himself have a second to admire her. Competent, strong and intuitive; Natasha was everything Steven wanted. “The sooner the better. But first we warn everyone now.”

“Maybe give yourself a minute.” She smiled, a saucy grin that was so different from the vulnerable woman who’d slept in his bed last night. “A little cold water should help.”

He knew he was blushing, the heat rushing to his cheeks and his ears, but he recognized a distraction when he heard one. “Next time we wake up in the same bed, maybe you can take care of it for me.”

A hint of doubt flitted through her eyes before the confident woman was back in control. “Maybe. Steve.”

Pounding feet sounded outside the doorway, a muffled voice shouting just as the fire in Steven’s heart flamed to life. Little tendrils of magic danced along the stone arch and Steven felt the discharge like winter static.

“Something tells me they already know there’s a problem,” Natasha said.

They left together at a run, no time to pause for a robe.

* * *

 

“Can I help you?”

Clint woke with a start, his heart racing, every inch of his skin prickling with awareness. An empty bed greeted his outstretched arm -- Phil had risen early as usual -- and Clint had dozed off again, no need to be up for another hour or so. Face down in his pillow, he rolled over and surveyed the room. Nothing out of place, no one around.

A fission of fear ran down his spine, and he sat up with a gasp. Phil. He had to find Phil. Music was playing in the corridor, faint but insistent, a strident march that got Clint out of bed just before the next wave of panic hit.

“What do you want?”

He could hear Phil’s voice as clear as if he was next to him. Without a thought to his state of dress, Clint threw open the door and barrelled down the hallway. He passed the kitchen where Annamarie stuck her head out and called to him. Ran through the main hall where tables were being arranged for first meal. Darted down the back hallway to Phil’s office, Annamarie on his heels. Skidding to a stop, Clint came to the open door just in time for the full force of the released magic to slam into his chest and drive him back against the wall. Phil crumbled to the floor, and Clint struggled to sit up and get a deep breath to fill his lungs.

“Gran?” Clint stared incredulously at the man blocking the doorway.

Lord Reason Frasier looked as Clint remembered from his childhood. The same low brimmed hat he’d wear on his rambles, the long walks he loved to take, his scuffed well-mended boots covered in mud and dirt from climbing the ruins. The pocket watch with its long gold chain, long ago sold by Clint’s father. But missing was the sparkle in his blue-grey eyes, that sense of humor that carried him through life. A trembling hand reached out for Clint, lilac colored magic spreading from the finger tips.

A shower of white particles rained down. Like a piece of paper blown by the wind, the man wavered and then was ripped apart between one eyeblink and the next.  Clint levered himself off the floor as Dax pulled back a small casket, top open and inside empty.

“Phil!” Clint rushed into the room and gathered up his husband. Moaning, Philip blearily looked around.

“What happened?” Philip asked.

“A ghost,” Annamarie answered. Clint helped Philip up and into a chair then brushed the white granules off his skin, suddenly thankful for Philip’s insistence that he sleep in pants at least. “Reason Frasier, if I’m not mistaken.”

“What was that?” Clint asked to the cook whose face was crestfallen.

“That was the monthly supply of salt,” Dax answered with a sigh. “I hope the weather breaks soon or we’ll be eating bland food for the next few weeks.”

“Salt disperses ghosts.” Leave it to Annamarie to take the supernatural in stride. “Doesn’t get rid of them, but they don’t like it.”

“The manor is haunted?” Philip rubbed his hand over his face then noticed Clint’s half-naked state. He raised his eyebrows in question; Clint just shrugged.

“I grew up here and, despite the stories, I’ve never seen or heard of a ghost in the house. The Abbey? yes. The Cairns? Sure. But not here.” Clint put his hand on Philip’s shoulder, his fingers on the curve of his neck, and felt instantly better as their connection solidified.

“Now might be a good time to tell you I saw my mother last night in the servant’s hallway,” Annamarie interjected. “The twins have seen her a number of times since Michaelmas.”

“Spirits often take form in places of great tragedy.” Dax made it seem a foregone conclusion. “I have often felt the presence of another in the kitchen. Quiet. Benign. More like … someone watching over what was theirs.”

“Well, Gran wasn’t the type to try to fry someone with magic,” Clint said. “So whatever that was, I don’t think benign is the right word to use.”

Natasha appeared in the door; Clint took in her loose pants and untucked shirt, the tendrils of hair around her face. Standing behind her, Steven looked like he’d just woken up, his own feet bare and blonde locks tousled. Before he could even open his mouth, Natasha’s eyes narrowed, and Clint bit off what he was about to say. If Steven’s face was any indication, the two had been together and Clint wanted nothing more than to see Natasha have a chance at happiness.

“Should I get everyone else?” Natasha asked, jumping straight to the point.

“Breakfast is ready,” Annamarie said. “I’ll get a pot of tea and coffee ready if you’re going to want people bright eyed and bushy tailed.”

They gathered around a trestle table, bowls of dried apple cinnamon oatmeal and a selection of Dax’s breakfast pies to share. Clint particularly loved the sausage rolled up in Rachel’s flaky crust, whole boiled eggs in the middle. The workers and the guards ate them by the dozen, popping extra in their pockets for a mid-morning or lunch time snack. Packs were being readied for anyone traveling and the stonemasons finishing up out at the wall even as Clint finished his first one.

Darcy dragged into the hall, her hair tied back with a simple scarf, her eyes half closed as she clung to her mug of coffee. Patting the open seat on the bench next to him, Bruce, having finished two bowls of oatmeal already, had picked out a pie for his wife. She shuffled over and sank down, leaning into Bruce’s side as she picked at the crispy pastry and waited for the black liquid to do its work.

In the time it took for the message to spread, Nathan running one direction and a sleepy Theodore the other, Clint had assured himself that Philip was uninjured, Philip had filled him in on the morning’s developments, and he’d gotten dressed despite the distraction of Philip in the room. Natasha looked as if she’d gotten up hours ago instead of rolling out of Steve’s bed and Clint couldn’t wait to tease her about that. In private, of course. Maybe with Philip there as a buffer.

“So.” Clint surveyed the familiar faces, people he’d come to trust with his life. “Ghosts in the manor.”

“Ghosts, like apparitions? Death echoes? Or poltergeists?” Bruce asked. “Did it speak?”

“The one I saw didn’t,” Philip said. “But it did expend magical energy when I got near it.”

“My mother said nothing to me, but the twins say she sings to them. Just like she used to do when I was little.” Annamarie, for once, wasn’t bustling around but sitting at the table with a cup of tea cradled in her hands.

“Residual haunts?” Jessica asked. “Hey, I grew up in the Outer Isles. Orphanages were breeding grounds for all kinds of stories. One of them was an old fort that was so riddled with ghosts we went everywhere in pairs, so afraid of being alone in the rooms.”

“Have they always been here?” Carol asked. “I haven’t seen anything since we arrived.”

“We think it started around Michaelmas,” Philip explained. “Which makes sense considering all the magic being thrown around to raise the dead and enslave people’s will.”

“Yes,” Bruce agreed. “That could stir the pot, give form to what was lingering. The most common theory is that ghosts are left over energy; the more violent the death, the more chances of a marker remaining.”

“The attack two years ago.” Jessica laid a comforting hand on Annamarie’s forearm. Sometimes Clint forgot that Annamarie was close to his and Barney’s ages; she handled so much responsibility and grew more and more like her mother every day . “If we’re looking for violence, I would think that would suffice.”

“Or it was me.” Darcy put down her cup. “I mean, when I woke Lord Rogers, I did get more than I bargained for. Maybe I called them.”

“It’s a possibility,” Bruce admitted. His hand slipped around Darcy’s. “But more likely it’s a combination of all the various spells. And if you did call them, that’s good news. We can find a way to put them back to rest.”

“Or it’s something else entirely.” Sam Wilson hadn’t spoken yet, sitting quietly in his place beside his cousin, Luke. “I’ve heard stories about the veil between worlds, how it can be softened or opened by any number of things. Elves. Revenants. Liches. Royalty of the fairy courts. Hell, there’s a guy who lives in a series of caves two days ride from Burosey who believes that machines can open gateways between planes of existence. Sometimes ghosts and spirits get riled up; there’s lots of explanations for it.”

“Sam’s right,” Philip said. “We need to be vigilant and get started researching ways to deal with ghosts. Someone should head to Singer’s place, gather information there; Bruce and I can work in the library here. Unless we have more of a reason to believe this is another feint by the Sorcerer, we deal with it through common practices.”

Clint saw Natasha dig an elbow into Steven’s side; subtle she wasn’t.

“Ah, well, I may have something to offer on that point.” Steven still felt unsure of his place, adjusting to this new time and all the new people. “I’m just a soldier, not a magic user, so I don’t know if this matters but I had a dream last night about Margaret Carter. She used to contact me through astral projection; it didn’t surprise me that I would see her in my sleeping hours. But it ended very strangely. We were in what appeared to be a mound or cave and a darkness came out of the shadows and … swallowed her. She disappeared inside of it. Probably just a metaphor, but maybe … I don’t know if it meant anything.”

“Your input is always appreciated, Steven,” Philip said. “We need all the help we can get.”

Tell the Soldier he’s needed. Clint flashed to the phrase of Queen Frigga’s letter to Philip. Steven was always calling himself just a soldier. And he needed to be reminded he had a place here.

“I felt the same thing,” Natasha added. “Steve and I agree that we should move the timetable up for our departure. If Sam’s amenable, we could leave before the front moves in and get some distance on the trail. That would put us passing Caine’s Cross late tomorrow; we could drop in on Singer, have him send someone back with the information.”

“And check along the way to see if this is localized or wide spread. We’ll send runners to the McCarters and other places that have had recent deaths or troubles.” The plan was unspooling in Clint’s mind now, laid out before him. “Let’s be proactive. With Andrew at the Abbey on a daily basis, he can keep an eye out.” He stopped and looked around at the company gathered. “Anybody who has any information on how to deal with ghosts, be sure and tell Bruce and Philip. Let’s start mapping where they appear and when and what happens. Guess we’re going into the ghosthunting business.”

Theodore ran up to the table and, in a sign of just how far he’d come, paused behind Clint and  Philip, waiting to be noticed, only fidgeting a little. Clint nodded to the boy to give him permission to speak. “There’s visitors, Milord, and they’re asking for Lord Philip. Said Old Man Singer sent them.”

“Show them in,” Clint told him. With a quick glance to Philip, Clint stood and waited for the newcomers to arrive. In only a moment, two young men walked through the archway into the hall. The oldest looked to be near Clint’s age; his short brown hair was spiky in places, green eyes alert and scanning the room, falling on all the exits and skimming over the faces gathered there. A fighter, then, Clint decided; the man moved with a purpose of stride, his sword and knife resting comfortably on his belt. He was maybe six feet tall, but his companion still towered over him by a number of inches. Younger by a few years, the second man bore a marked resemblance to the first in his facial features -- high cheekbones, same determined lips and jaw. With his longer hair the same color brown tied back with a leather thong, he moved with the grace of a swordsman, leaner than his brother -- for Clint had no doubt these two were siblings -- and yet still a bit coltish, all elbows and knees. Both their faces were marred by dark circles under their eyes and smears of road dirt and mud.

“Lord Barton-Coulson?” The older spoke.

“I’m Clint Barton, Lord of this manor. How can I help you?” Clint noticed the quick look that darted between the men, a silent conversation held in just a glance.

“Bobby Singer said you needed someone tracked down.”  The man held out his hand. “I”m Dean Winchester, and this is my brother Samuel. We’re hunters, the ones he told you about.”

“Ah, yes. Come in. You look like you’ve been traveling all night and could use some breakfast.” Clint motioned to the table; Annamarie  went to get more coffee and tea.

“Is that pie?” Dean asked, eyeing the platter on the table.

“Dax makes the best breakfast pie in the Northern Midlands,” Carol replied, standing to make room. She knocked over a mug and knelt down to pick it up; Samuel, the younger brother, took it from her hand and put it back on the table. A riff played in Clint’s ear, a fast fall of notes like the opening of new song. Samuel smiled at Carol, and his aura glowed, a pewter silver that reached out to Carol’s strong yellow. Then it was gone, and Clint made a quick decision.

“We don’t stand on decorum here,” Clint said. “There’s water in the ewer by the door. Wash up and take as much as you like. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

He watched them as the words played back in his head. The Hunters track and the Captain kneels, the verse went in the old song. What had Queen Frigga said? Be sure the hunters are on the right trail and the Captain doesn’t lose her way.  Her way. Carol, Captain of the Guard.

A shiver shook Clint, a portent of things to come. Philip caught his hand, and brand new instruments joined the others as magic flowed between them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cough, cough* Come on, you didn't think I could have Bobby Singer and not the Winchesters. Don't worry, this is still a Marvel crossover story. I just want to write a drinking scene with Clint and Dean, plus Sam is such a cutie and there's lots of characters who could be his bondmate ... :)


	4. No Rest for the Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ghosts of Barton Manor are more than they seem. Allies arrive, some depart, and a prisoner is freed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry these chapters are taking so long to write. I'm plugging along on this story as I have time. Don't worry; I have the whole thing planned, it's just a matter of RL demands leaving little time to write.

“Ghosts? Yeah, magic can rile them up.” Dean Winchester finished off his second breakfast pie and was eyeing a third. He was lean and clearly hungry; his leather jerkin was worn with age,  long slashes that could be knife or claw marks whipped together with mismatched thread. But his weapons were well-cared for, clean and sharp; he used one knife to spear the third pie and cut it in half. “Lots of things can get them going. From what I hear, there’s been some real emotional turmoil around here in the last few years.”

“Not to mention the amount of haunted places in the area.” Samuel picked up the thread of the conversation as Dean ate. “All sorts of rumors about unusual goings on in the mountains, strange lights, sounds, possessed animals, echoes of battles. I can’t say it surprises me to hear you’ve got your own set of spectres. The magical energy part, that’s troubling. Most ghosts are fairly harmless -- repeating old behavior, watching over family, haunting a specific spot -- but generating an aura field? That’s odd.”

“That spook down in that town near the Capitol, what was it called? Bend of the River or something?” Dean chased the pie down with half a cup of coffee.

“Avonarc,” Samuel filled in, sipping his tea. “Nasty job, that poltergeist.”

“The manor’s not built on a graveyard is it?” Dean asked.

Phil had been researching the history of Frasierton and the manor so he knew the answer right away. “No, but there are a number of them nearby. The Abbey’s crypt has the oldest occupants as well as being the site of a few battles. The rest are small family burials … unless you count the long barrows scattered in the foothills. They’re empty now; no one knows who built them. They were here when the Dugan family first settled and the Abbey was started.”

“How far are the Cairns?” Samuel routed around in the pack he’d shoved under the table, coming up with a small map of the area. Soft folds fell open; obviously well used, the map had writing and hand drawn marks, a remnant of a life of travel. “And what about that other place … Eagle’s nest … Falcon’s flight?”

“Hawk’s Leap.” Phil glanced over at Clint. “It’s about a day and a half ride.”

“Right, the Lord who flew. Caw, caw,” Dean grinned, and Phil realized just how handsome he was, his green eyes flashing with humor.  “Half the hill ripped away, the story goes.”

“Bobby’s always talking about that network of underground tunnels,” Samuel tapped the location on the parchment. “Filled with bodies from a legendary war. Remember he used to tell us stories about Lord Rogers and his men.”

“The tunnels exist.” Clint sat his mug down. “There’s a big cavern under Hawk’s Leap, one of their assembly rooms.”

“Really? I’d love to see that. Where there other rooms? I can only imagine what was left behind when they evacuated.” Interested, Samuel leaned forward and put his elbows on the edge of the table. “And the Abbey? That’s definitely worth checking out as well.”

“But that’s not why Bobby sent for us.” Suddenly all business, the lightness dropped out of Dean’s voice. “Janet Van Dyne. She’s fifteen-years-old, lives on her family estate outside of Chinois. Her father was a scholar turned machinist; he died in an explosion in his lab last year. The Men of Letters investigated; it was all hush hush, of course, but Lady Van Dyne was assigned two caretakers from the ranks. Things aren’t going well; she’s already run away twice. Something happened a few months ago, though; the town’s folk haven’t seen her outside in weeks.”

“That’s …” Philip paused. “Is she in danger? It they’re keeping her prisoner …”

“She’s on the watchlist,” Samuel explained. “The Men of Letters keep close eye on anyone that exhibits any hints of magic. So are all of you.”

“I thought you were part of the Men of Letters?” Clint asked, and Philip worried that, despite being friends with Robert Singer, these men would be a danger rather than an aid.

“Legacies on our father’s side, but mom’s family has always been hunters. Sammy here’s the scholar want-to-be; I prefer the up close and personal strategy,” Dean explained. “Not everyone has forgotten what’s really out there; there has always been monsters and someone has to deal with them.”

Something about Dean reminded Philip of his husband, the straightforward determination. “So you hunt the odd, the unusual?” he asked.

“Ghosts, werewolves, shapeshifters, ghouls,” Dean said. “A basilisk once and a griffin down in the Outer Isles. Magic isn’t gone, we’ve just gotten good at ignoring it. I’m preaching to the choir of course; golems, wargs, revenants, you’re on the front line now.”  

“You have to excuse him, he suffers from a severe lack of trust. Being around the first mages in centuries makes him uncomfortable,” Samuel apologized for his brother.

“Hey, that’s not true. The brunette with curves doesn’t bother me,” Dean replied.

“My sister Darcy,” Philip said. “And Bruce’s new wife.”

“I meant that as a compliment. You’re blessed with a plethora of very handsome people around here.” Dean kicked back, completely unfazed. “But we’re off topic; Janet Van Dyne. She turns sixteen in two months and then she’ll be harder to get to.”

“Why?” Clint asked.

“The watchers will take her to University for testing and, if necessary, reprogramming,” Samuel answered.

Philip didn’t hide his smile. “Well, it just so happens we have a couple of insiders there. Peter and Henry can find her.”

“They’ll put her in the tower,” Dean warned. “She’ll be impossible to reach.”

“You don’t know my brother,” Philip said. “Heights don’t bother him at all.”

* * *

 

“Nice rig you’ve got.” Steven walked around the back of the tinker’s wagon. Sturdily built, weathered wood chinked tight, one side of the vehicle was hinged to fold down, opening out for markets and fairs. Along the sides and around the back was painted a sweep of color, white feathering out from lines of red, swirled and stylized, lined with gold paint. Inside was roomy enough for a bed at the far end, a series of storage lockers that doubled as benches, and lots of shelves with organized bins and boxes, packed all the way up to the curve of the ceiling. A small cupboard held a brazier and cooking utensils. Snug and yet more spacious than he had imagined, Sam’s wagon was the perfect way to travel.

“It’s home.” Sam shrugged, tucking a drawer full of sharpened knives back into their place just above a bin filled with bolts of fabric. “Fortunately, I know this route well; I’ve got regular stops we can stay at as we go.”

“Won’t it look odd to have us with you?” The goal, Steven knew, was to go unnoticed as long as possible, especially in his case. Natasha, he suspected, could be virtually invisible in any situation. He, however, was the once and future hero; roaming around as Lord Steve Rogers asking about James Buchanan was bound to garner unwanted attention.

“Lots of travelers ride along. Safety in numbers is best on some of these roads.” Sam put a velvet lined case with some jewelry from Luke’s shop into another bin, one with a lock. Everything was tied down and secured to not move with the sway of the wagon.

“Who’s harrying travelers? Shouldn’t the King’s Guard be protecting the main trade routes?” That had been one of things they’d fought for, Steven thought, protection for all the people, regardless of how rich or poor or where they lived.

“Up this way, it’s animals, wolves and gimlets and wargs, but there are bandits and they grow bolder every season since King Donaldson declared that security was up to the Lord Holders. The Royal Treasury can not cover the costs, not when the Lords are so much wealthier than the King.” Sam shrugged. “Politics with a helping dose of Loki’s manipulation.”

“Never was a student of politics,” Steve admitted. “I’d rather go for a fight than backroom deals.”

“Heard that about you,” Sam agreed. “Me, I like it out here in the countryside to the false smiling faces of Court. Doesn’t mean I don’t care what’s going on there … there’s a lot to be gained learning how people think and live.”

“Amen to that.” Tunnel vision, that’s what happened to people in the Capitol and Burosey and other cities; they believed their views were the same as all the citizens. They forgot what it was like to work the land, to eat before sundown, to raise their children themselves. Not that Steve had ever been part of court nobility; that was Margaret, raised in privilege and still the most down-to-earth woman he’d ever known. Steven was a street kid, like James. They understood what sacrifice meant. “Out here is where things begin. If they wait until the trouble gets to the heart of the MIdlands, the country is already lost.”

“I wish the King would listen to common sense like that. But he and his advisors don’t want to hear any bad news.” Sam jumped out of the back of the wagon. “The signs have been growing for years. Attacks like the one up at the manor go back almost a decade, all on outer holds, remote areas without a lot of protection. Increased animal attacks, some of them magical. I’ve run into the Winchesters a few times on the road, shared stories. They’ve been busier and busier while the Men of Letters have shoved their heads in the sand.”

“You trust Dean and Sam?” Steven asked.

“They’re good men to have at your back in a fight and they’ve saved a lot of lives,” Sam said. “Wouldn’t you say, Natasha?”

Even with the beginning of their bond, she could still sneak up on him. At times, Steven swore she was a ghost herself, so easily did she appear and disappear. “I’ve only met the younger brother once, and he was going by a different name. But he was a good fighter and very useful.”

“That’s high praise coming from you.” Sam flipped a knife at her, and she caught it midair, running a finger along the sharpened edge before it disappeared into her belt. “Best I’ve ever gotten is that I’m a decent cook.”

“Your rabbit stew is good,” she said with a shrug. “Just the right balance between spicy and savory. About ready, Wilson?”

“Another hour to do the last checks and then we can roll East,” Sam answered. “I’ll pick you up in the courtyard.”

“Dax said he’s packing us a basket for the road,” Natasha said as they left the blacksmith’s yard and headed through town. “His meat rolls are worth the price of admission.”

“I want to talk to Andrew before we leave; I’d planned to visit the Abbey today.” As long as the cold continued, his steed would stay in hibernation, regaining her strength and healing. Steven was grateful that Andrew had a gift with animals and had made an instant connection. Last thing they needed was a confused dragon on their hands.

“Oh, damn it,” Natasha cursed under her breath. “Alleyway, now.”

With a shove of her shoulder, she bumped him into the space between the bakery and a scribner’s shop. Empty packing crates served as a barrier, partially concealing them. With her back to the stone wall, she turned Steve so his face was obscured and used him as a cover to lean out and check the road.

“Mayor Garrett.” She pronounced the name with intense displeasure dripping from the syllables. “Has he started in on you yet about his daughters?”

“He hasn’t stopped since the first night he came to dinner at the manor.” Steven’s distaste for the man was tempered only by the fact he had been taught to respect those in positions of power. Being mayor was a thankless job, constantly busy dealing with complaints and legal language. Someone had to do it, so Steven gave credit to anyone who took the title. But John Garrett was pushy and more a politician who promised everything to everyone. His drive to marry off his three daughters was the butt of many jokes; Steven wondered how the girls felt about their father relentlessly shoving them at every available male.

“He’s been pushing for Philip to spend more money upgrading infrastructure of the town. Sewers and wells and drainage. Philip had people drawing up plans for improvements, but Garrett wants to have a say in the designs.” She was so close to him that she barely needed to  whisper to be heard. He drew in her scent; today she smelled of cool wind that carried just a hint of snow. Every day was different with her, as if she blended into the surroundings. The bond tugged at his chest, tightening as it tried to draw them together. Sensing Steven’s shift in attention, she pulled back and tilted her head, a slow crawl of a smile spreading. “Of course, if you tell him you’re sleeping with me, he’ll leave you alone. He’s scared of me, or so I hear. Won’t even be a lie, either.”

Her small hands … how could someone so deadly accurate have such delicate fingers? … wrapped around his belt. Even as he watched, her mask slid in place, the calm, sophisticated, sexual woman that knew what she wanted. Lifting a hand, he dragged his thumb along the side of her face, catching a long tendril of red hair that had escaped her braid and tucking it behind her ear. “I didn’t sleep with the Black Widow,” Steven said. “I slept with Natasha.”

A flicker in her eyes, the bond shivered with a different kind of need, and then she was back in control again. “One and the same, Steve. One and the same.”

He traced the line of her jaw, brushed the pad of his thumb across her red lips. Parting them, she exhaled, her breath warm and moist.  “Not even remotely true.”

Gods, but her eyes were endless, the green of emeralds to rival even the purest gems. Long lashes, feather soft on his fingertips as he slid them along curve of her cheek. Skin smooth against his roughed callouses, peaches-and-cream complexion. An hollow scar where her cheek met her ear, a knife wound long healed, another faded white, a burn, by the corner of one eye. He touched each one in turn, the map of her face telling her story, an almost silent sigh escaping her lips as he circled at her temples.

“Are you going to kiss me or not, soldier boy?” Her voice was husky as the tip of her tongue swiped across her bottom lip. Eyes half-closed, she peered at him, a straightforward gaze that shuddered over her emotions.

He leaned down. She quirked up the side of her mouth and tilted her head back, and then Steven shifted his descent brushing his cheek to hers as he brought his lips to her ear. Strands of red caught in his eye lashes as his came close enough to brush along the outer rim, breathing out. A shiver ran through her, a tiny tremor that he felt through the bond more than from touch.

“Not yet,” he murmured, the words so close, so intimate. “A slow build up is more exciting, don’t you think?”

The tip of his tongue traced the whorl of her ear; a harsh exhale was his reward. Up and over, down to the lobe, he lightly nipped at it and sucked it in his mouth, rolling it on his tongue. Then his lips found that spot behind her ear, and he dropped a light kiss, a bare brush of skin, then another, slower, then another, swiping with his tongue along the muscle, and then another, drawing the circle of skin into his mouth and nipping at it.

Her hands clenched at his belt, but she didn’t pull, just held on as he worked his way down her neck, half inch by half inch. A surprised “Oh” fell from her lips when changed directions back to her pulse point just under her jaw line, resting his mouth there as he counted the beats of her heart. When he was done, he drew back, beginnings of scruff along his jaw scraping her skin, and he waited for her to open her eyes. Confusion warred with arousal in the depths, her confidence shaken.

“There you are,” Steve said. He cradled her face with his hands and rested  his forehead on hers. “Tasha.”

“I …” Her voice shook then stopped. Steven shared his strength, let it course down the fragile bond, not yet fully formed. “I don’t …”

“Trust is to be earned. I know,” he agreed. “I’m willing to wait.”

Finally, he brushed her lips with his; the mark formed easily, like sinking in a warm pool of water together, the flush of heat turning skin red. Her magic opened for him, and, even with his eyes closed, he saw inside of her, the first hints of who she truly was.

“That’s you?” She blinked, opened her eyes, something fragile and real reflected there. “I thought you had all the answers.”

He laughed at that. “Bucky will tell you I’m a stubborn bastard who goes off half-cocked most of the time.  What you felt? Yes, that’s me.”

“And here I was thinking you were going to be the responsible one.” Her good humor was back; she playfully pushed him away, the slight flush in her cheeks endearing and sexy, more so than her come-hither persona. “Tell me Barnes has it all together or we’re in serious trouble.”

“We’re in serious trouble,” he replied. “But then that’s nothing new for either of us, is it?”

* * *

 

Andrew tossed his reins to one of the new stable boys, issuing orders on how to take care of Sleipner before he left the riding ring. The Asgardian horse, Loki’s personal steed, had been left to Andrew’s keeping. When Loki had disappeared, the horse had been a handful, sensing its master was gone. Only Andrew could approach the magnificent palfrey, his gift of soothing both man and beast allowing him to get close enough to feed and take care of her. Now, as Clint watched the young brunette stroll his way, he was struck by just how much Andrew had grown in the last year. His lean frame had filled out, more muscular from his work in the stables, and his face, still handsome, was more content, less pinched and worried. No longer the camp follower who traded sex for protection, Andrew had grown into his talent, thanks in no small part to Philip’s trust and guidance. Surprising, considering that when Philip arrived at the manor, Clint had been sleeping with Andrew.

“Lord Barton,” Andrew greeted him. Correct title, bow of the head, but a wicked smile on his face and good humor in his eyes. “I’m dying to know who that gorgeous black stallion belongs to. One beautiful piece of horseflesh, I’m telling you; there’s got to be some royal blood in him. Well cared for and spirited. He’d make a great sire for Sleipner.”

“You’ll have to take that up with our guests, the Winchesters.” Clint sidestepped William who barrelled past him and up the stairs into the Manor. “How was the trip out to the Abbey?”

“Oh, that big baby is doing well. Eating and sleeping mostly. She’s another lovely creature, easy to please. Scratch her eye ridge and her underneck and she’s yours.” Andrew smile grew even wider, softening as he thought of the dragon that was now part of his flock. “I mean to talk to Bruce about a salve for her dry skin; Steven told me she liked arnica mixed with aloe and a hint of lavender.”

“Next you’ll be bringing her flowers,” Clint joked as they walked through the Manor doors. “Sleipner will be jealous.”

“Nah, I know how to play the field. I can juggle a couple of lovely ladies. Oh. Oh my.” Andrew stopped in the doorway of main hall. “Who are they?”

“The older one is the man who owns that stallion you were raving about.” Clint pointed Andrew in the right direction. “Dean Winchester and his brother Samuel.”

“Guess I need to see a man about a horse.” Andrew chuckled at his own bad joke and sauntered over to where the brothers were talking with Bruce and Carol, map sprawled across a table.  

“Good luck with that,” Clint said to the retreating back. He headed down the hall and out into the small walled garden where Philip was digging up some of the beds to prepare for spring planting. The pathways were cleared of snow, the small wheelbarrow filled with brown leaves and stalks of dead annuals. “Andrew is making a run at our guests,” Clint said in way of opening. “He’s in serious lust at the moment.”

“Which one?” Philip wiped his hand on his breeches, an older pair he wore when he was doing household chores. Despite the chill, Philip was in his shirt sleeves, sweat glistening on his neck from his work.

“Both.” Clint traced the progress of a drop that slid down beneath the collar of Philip’s shirt. “Can’t say I blame him; if I was single, I’d be interested myself. But,” he caught the waist of Philip’s pants and tugged him closer, “it seems I have a husband who keeps me more than satisfied.”

“In case it escaped you, I’m working here,” Philip groused, but he didn’t resist when Clint slipped his arms around him. “I have a meeting with the pipe layers in less than a half hour and, after that, a city council meeting. Which you could go to in my place, you know.”

“Sorry, I’m busy this afternoon with the Winchesters. They want to check out some of the hot spots for ghost activity; Carol and I are going to ride out with them.” He tilted his head and smelled his husband’s musky scent, familiar and arousing. A light brush of lips on Philip’s pulse point beneath his jaw and then Clint drew back. “Steven and Natasha are on the road; I saw the wagon off. I feel almost sorry for Wilson, trapped in close quarters with them; how long do you think before they combust?”

“Rogers strikes me as a slow and steady type. He’ll wear her down. And, as we know, the bond does what it wants,” Philip answered. He shivered as Clint’s hand freed the hem of his shirt and touched bare skin.

“Mmmm,” Clint agreed, tracing the curve of Philip’s back with his fingers. “She’s going to fight it.”

The energy stirred, the circuit between them almost closed, just the fabric of Clint’s shirt between them. “He … they … will be good for her,” Philip argued.

“Preaching to the choir, Phil,” Clint murmured. “Look how good you are for me.”

So many different types of kisses, Clint was discovering. So much emotion to be conveyed with the weep of skin against skin, a mouth-to-mouth communication that needed no words. Lazy morning kisses that spoke of long nights of love making. Quick busses to say goodbye, be careful, come back to me. Easy introspective explorations revealed secrets that were too sacred to say out loud. Hot demands, urgent need, want you now, need you, let me in. Reverent touches of surprise and grateful acceptance of this precious gift they’d been given.

This kiss was contentment with a tinge of worry left from the morning, a validation that they were here, were safe, had time to do nothing but kiss slow and deliberately in the early spring sunshine. Out where anyone could see, among a garden slowly coming back to life. A few moments to step away from their responsibilities and be just Phil and Clint.

When Philip’s fingers curled around Clint’s face, magic swirled, not a headlong rush of power, but a slow build, spiraling down their bodies and out, spreading across the ground in a haze of purple. The tune in Clint’s head was lush and full, a ballad that swelled as he slipped his tongue into Philip’s mouth.  It buoyed Clint up, refreshed his soul, Philip’s magic enough for both of them.

When their lips parted, Clint nuzzled his nose into the curve of Philip’s neck, fitting their bodies together. Warm and safe, he gave a little sigh against Philip’s skin; for a few breaths, there was magic and Philip and nothing else. Once, when Clint was in the Outer Isles, he’d spent a day floating on his back in a deep blue lagoon, sun warm on his skin, water cool against his back. Standing here with Philip was like that but better.

“Clint.” Philip’s voice was calm and easy but Clint felt the pulse of worry.

Easing back, Clint cautiously looked around at the flowering plants, roses vibrant red and pink, lilac blooms of lavender, orange calendula on bright green stalks. Spring bloomers, fall mums, evergreens … all a riot of color together. Kneeling on the brick pathway, a stained heavy apron covering her floral gown, the grey-haired woman was patiently weeding the bed, pulling green stem by green stem out with a small spade and her glove covered hands.

“Lady Mary?” Philip spoke before Clint could form the words. His grandmother looked up and smiled their way before turning back to her work.

“The garden’s beautiful, Gran.” Clint hadn’t told her just how much this space had meant to him, leafy branches a perfect hiding place for a scrawny little boy.  Many times Clint lay still and silent, pretending to be one of the unfeeling statues, while Mary Frasier puttered about, making everything she touched grow.

The power of their bond continued to flow and Lady Mary grew more substantial until Clint could see the mends in her hose. So, too, the man who walked up to her, Petyr the cook; he looked older than when Clint had last seen him, more worn around the edges, but he was the same man who used to slip Clint hot cross buns when he’d been denied dinner. An aura crackled around him, static building in the air as he looked directly at Clint and Philip. His mouth opened but nothing came out; Petyr grimaced and tried again.

“Not … gone … Clinton.” Mangled and barely audible, the words came out, a raspy echo of Petyr’s real voice.

“Petyr.” Clint stepped forward. A burst of electricity lanced out, hitting Clint in the chest. The sharp pain knocked him back;  Philip’s hands steadied him.

“Be careful.” Philip’s magic circled Clint like a protective cloak and both ghosts reacted, their bodies flickering, faces changing to hideous masks of anger. They raised their arms, hands reaching out, and the blast of energy knocked both Clint and Philip backwards.

“Get down!” Dean Winchester burst through the Manor door, a rapier thin sword in his hand. He swung it like an axe, slicing down through Petyr’s body, breaking him apart. He exploded, dissolving into magical shrapnel that blew outward. Clint felt it slam into the shield; Philip grunted as his strength took the hits.

Dean reversed directions and caught Mary Frasier in mid leap, her body now a seething mass of black eating its way from the inside out. The splattered pieces hissed as it contacted the magic shield; Dean jerked back, dropping his sword to yank off his vest. Smoking holes appeared as he tossed it on the snowy ground.

“What the fuck is that?” Dean asked.

“Behind you!” Samuel had a leather pouch; with a flick of his wrist, he sent a rain of salt through Reason Frasier, the tiny grains evaporating the ghost.

Clint grabbed Philip as he sagged to the ground, the expenditure of magic draining him. He lowered him until they were both sitting on the ground, Philip securely in Clint’s arms.

“Off, off, off.” Dean yanked at his shirt, a dark stain spreading over the linen. Grabbing the hem, Samuel pulled it up and off, a seam ripping as he did. “Never seen a ghost do that before.”

“That strigoi exploded, remember? Nasty piece of work.” Samuel seemed to be taking the whole chain of events in stride, nudging at a blob of residue with the end of his boot. It popped and sizzled as it dissolved.

“You can’t compare a stain with this stuff!” Dean groused, brushing at the red circle on his skin. “It burns, dude.”

Samuel scooped up a handful of snow and pressed it to his brother’s chest. “I’ll get the books from the saddlebags and start researching. Something about black goo seems familiar.”

“Bruce can help,” Philip said, sitting up. “We have a decent library.”

“Um, thanks, but I’m looking for specialized texts …” Samuel started to say.

“We found most of them in the Commandos’ tunnels,” Clint broke in.

Samuel’s eyes widened and Dean sighed. “And we’ve lost him. Boy’s a frustrated scholar.”

“There’s a few of those around here. He’ll be right at home.”

* * *

 

He wasn’t ready. He needed another week or two, time to learn more about how the magic worked, why it worked, what it could do. So much of this was jury rigged, pieced together out of loose ends and rejects, found items. It would probably fall apart within seconds, held together with nothing more than spit and twine.  But time was running out far too fast; the Green Knight had been noticeably absent the last few days and Anthony hadn’t seen the other man, the soldier they kept on ice when they didn’t need him, for over a month. At least he thought he’d been in this cavern that long. He’d made a rudimentary clock when he first got here, using parts of the big machine.

Something was afoot. Lord Tarleton had arrived and closeted himself with the Red Knight and the other guy, the foreigner. Talk of the Asgardian prince, his control over King Donaldson flew in the hallway. Whispers of resistance, a mage and a bard and an archer, pressing forward the timetable. It was now or never.

The magical mark on Anthony’s chest was throbbing in time to his increased pulse as he buckled on the breastplate. He could only do so much by himself, so he’d stuck to the main pieces, two for his legs, bucklers for his arms, gauntlets for his hands. A simple helm.  He’d burned his handprint into the center of the breastplate, no more certain how he did that than how he’d protected himself. It was enough to get him out of here, especially if the extra parts he’d added worked. His bits and bobbles, his father had called it, this bent for engineering. His little hobby just might pay off finally.

“You must go now.” The Green Knight appeared as he always did, seemingly out of thin air. “I warned them of unforeseen consequences. There are so many forces beyond their ken; what’s been stirred up cannot be controlled.”

“You’re helping me now?” Anthony wasn’t really surprised. Despite never seeing the face behind the helm, he’d gotten to know the man inside the suit over the months. “Decided to join the party side?”

“There is no time to banter words with you, Stark. My Lord needs the generator completed; he will know that you have been stalling.”  The Knight stepped away. “Go southeast. Find those who are looking for you. They need your expertise.”

Voices sounded in the hallway, booted feet moving his way. He was out of time.  “Come with me,” Anthony said.

“I cannot. My allegiance belongs to he who made me what I am. I have done more than I should.” He shimmered away, leaving Anthony alone.

“Man knows how to make an exit, I’ll give him that.”

The door opened, and Anthony charged the two guards who entered, barrelling through them and out into the hall. The armor he’d made was articulated, joints flexing and moving as he ran, left, then right, then down the main stairs just like the blueprints he’d found. More guards blocked the door; Anthony raised his hand, palm forward, and prayed he was a smart as he thought it was.

The handprint on his chest tingled, gold static gathered in his palm, and a beam of bright white burst out, slamming the first guard into the wall and knocking a second one aside.  He sidestepped the one with a sword, pivoted and fired at the ones coming behind him, then ran straight for the door, blasting it open with another energy beam.

Outside, mountains spread before him, cold wind whipping across the vista. Wide enough for a double team wagon, the entrance ledge was ice covered, curving around the side of the rocky precipice, an access road that wound down.

The tip of the spear caught him in his side, slipping under the edge of the armor and digging in, drawing a line of blood. Spinning, he brought his arm down on the wooden shaft, shattering it, but he was blindsided by two more guards who tried to drag him down, holding onto his arms. He fired another beam and the recoil knocked him out of their grasp; he rolled backwards and tumbled over the edge, falling out into the open air. He flailed his arms, panic setting in as the air whistled by; he’d never planned for this. Gravity dragged on the weight of the armor, pulling him down, the trees rushing up to meet him.

His heart pounded in his ears, his chest tightened and a wash of heat spread outward, down his legs and through his arms. Energy gathered in his hands and feet, sparking balls of gold that sparked and jumped until he opened his arms and pointed his palms downward. Equal and opposite reaction … his descent slowed in fits and starts, decelerating his body so when he hit the first limb, pain exploded in his forearm but his bone didn’t snap. He bumped down, branch by branch until he lay on his back, no breath in his lungs.

“Well, that was a hell of a ride,” he said when he could speak. Rolling over, he groaned as he pushed up, pains in places that had never hurt before, but, surprisingly, he could walk. At first he just wandered, shaken and half confused from a blow to his head. But he watched the snatches of sun and soon he oriented himself by clues … moss on the trees, the length of the shadows … heading southeast in what he determined was late afternoon. He trudged along the pine needle covered ground, favoring his left leg, trying to ignore the ache in his back and throbbing behind his eyes.

He heard the clop of hooves before he saw them and dived under the lowest branches of a fir tree. The horses appeared between the trees and Anthony shook his head twice to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

“Rhodey!” He shouted the name as he crawled out, waving his hand his friend.

James Rhodes was off his horse and across the space in seconds, gathering Anthony into his arms. The fear and worry and pain of the last few days came crashing down on Anthony’s shoulders and he was suddenly exhausted, hardly able to stand.

“Hey.” Anthony let Rhodes half carry him to the horses. “You’re late.”

“Tony,” James sighed, but he was smiling. “Let’s get you home then you can yell at me all you want, okay”

“I won’t say no to a bath, some food, and a bed,” Tony shook his head. “But we have to go talk to the new lord of Barton Manor.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, you know Dean Winchester would have a kick ass steed, don't you? 
> 
> Doing something different with Natasha/Steve/Bucky. Going for a slow burn rather than a quick bond. Stick with me. In my mental head canon, Natasha is pretty messed up when it comes to sex as in she can't separate sex as a tool/weapon/way to manipulate from sex as pleasure. Steve and Bucky are going to teach her and learn a little about themselves along the way.


	5. In a Glass Darkly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why are the ghosts so agitated? And what's their purpose? Sam, Steven, and Natasha are on the road to find answers while Clint and Philip hold down the fort at the manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I'm doing National Novel Writing Month, I should be posting more often. I'm using NaNo as an excuse to write 1600 words a day and this story is the top of my list to work on.

“Could be worse,” Sam said as the wagon splashed through a puddle of slushy mud. “Could be a blizzard.”

Natasha pulled at the collar of her treated cloak, trying to keep snow from sliding under the waterproof leather. The white stuff had started falling just after midday, scattered showers that came and went. Pockets of heavier downpours left an inch or two of the cold stuff covering the ground then an hour would pass with grey low hanging clouds over their heads. Aside from wet hair and some shivers, the weather didn’t affect their speed. Sam’s wagon was fitted tight and rolled without stopping.

“Is this not the turn off?” Natasha asked. They’d skirted the town and were almost at Singer’s home. A night inside with a warm bed was always welcome; she’d slept in the cold so many times that it barely bothered her now, enough to value a roof when she found one. “Don’t want to miss it in the snow.”

Sam chuckled; one of the reasons Natasha enjoyed the man’s company was his usual good mood. “The post there is the road. Maybe ten more minutes. If you’re thinking of hot water, you’ll have to flip for first bath. Singer only has one tub.”

“You’re spoiled, Wilson. Rogers here can go weeks sleeping on rocks without a complaint,” Natasha shot back. “He crosses a stream and smells fresh and clean.”

She’d started poking at Steven as soon as they were on the road, making fun of his perfect image from the stories. If the man wanted to have a relationship with her, he’d better have a good sense of humor; she didn’t take well to self-important men. Too long a history of smiling villains and untrustworthy want-to-be heroes to trust anyone who couldn’t laugh at themselves.

If she was honest with herself, which she usually was, her jokes staved off the worry that was growing in her gut. Since Steven had kissed her in the alleyway, he’d been nothing but solicitous to her, smiles and heated glances aside. Last night, they’d slept under the wagon on bedrolls; he’d been near enough to feel the heat from his body but he’d made no move to do more than loop an arm around her waist and share warmth. Only a quick morning kiss to the nape of her neck and he was up, tearing down camp so they could be on their way.

Not that he was ignoring her, by any means. As they rode, he joined in the conversation, talking freely about himself. With perfect timing, he regaled them with a tale about the tunnel system that included a rock fall, Dugan’s inability to admit he was wrong, a length of sabotaged rope, and a bag of potatoes. Sam laughed so hard he dropped the reins and had to climb off the seat to snag them. Touches were one thing, but Steven was sharing his life without qualms; Natasha found that to be as arousing as lovely phrases whispered in her ears.

“I’m afraid you’re wrong; I use rocks for pillows, not a bed. And it’s just a thimble of water, not a stream.” Steven smiled at her, seemingly unaffected by the wet snow piling up on his shoulder. “Damn poets can’t get their facts straight.”

“Next you’ll be telling me …” Sam begun then trailed off.

Standing along the side of the road were ghostly figures waiting, silently staring, snow falling around them without remark. Two, then four, then eight, then more,shadows between the trees.  Sam slowed the horses and took the turn up towards Singer’s, careful to keep his wheels in the ruts and not swing too wide. On their own mounts, Steven and Natasha followed; behind them a line of figures blocked the path, solidifying into humans. A woman in her night gown, feeling no cold at all. Men in rough gear, worn shirts and work pants. Armor clad fighters, leather and metal and rings of mail. Children in homespun clothing and a girl in her wedding dress.

“There must be a boneyard nearby,” Steven said, voice pitched low. He scanned the faces as they came into focus; Natasha resolutely didn’t take in the specifics, just watched for movement and patterns.

“Singer’s house is protected. If we get there, they shouldn’t be able to follow,” Sam said as Natasha fell in front of him, Steven taking the rear flank. He clicked at the horses, snapping the reins and they picked up speed, walk moving to more of a trot. The wagon swayed, the tinkling sounds of the hanging pots and pans providing a sort of music as they bumped along the trail.

The trees bowed over them, bare branches criss crossing the grey sky. A flock of black birds erupted from the bushes, and Sam started, his eyes tracking their progress as they spread out and settled on branches, watching them pass. The shadows were flanking them, getting closer to the edge of the path, lining the curve ahead.

“They’re the same people.” Steven’s voice came from behind them. “They’re following us and closing the road off behind us. Like … herding us.”

A man in a blue coat with leather straps crossed over his chest, double swords sheathed on his back, reached out a hand; Natasha’s horse shied to the side, almost stepping into a woman in an old poplin dress. Eyes widening with fear, the palfrey pranced and snorted; Natasha rubbed a soothing hand on her mane, pulling lightly on the reins to keep them in the middle of the wheel ruts.

“How fast can the wagon go?” Steven asked. Natasha risked a glance back and saw a line of ghosts reaching out to touch the painted sides of wood.

A young man of no more than eighteen dragged his fingers across the shield Steven had swung onto his arm; with a cry, the ghost reeled back and began to dissolve, bits disappearing from his hand up to his chest. The others groaned in unison, a sound that vibrated in the base of Natasha’s skull and sent shivers down her spine. Eyes flickered to black, crackling auras of different colors encasing hands that grasped for purchase.

“Not good.” Sam twisted in his seat, hand scrabbling behind him. He tossed a long piece of metal to Natasha. “Here. Catch.” An iron poker landed in her hand; she looked back in question. “Ghosts don’t like iron. Not sure what Steven’s shield is made of, but you saw what happened. We need to get out of here.”

She swung it like a club, slashing through the man in the blue coat; he exploded, a burst of foggy droplets and black goo that splattered on the ground, on her jacket and on her horse’s flank. Rearing in pain, the horse bolted into a headlong gallop, tearing out of the mass of ghosts and around the curve. She tried to control the plunge, easing back on the reins until one side gave way, burned patch weak enough to break. Finally, they slowed enough for her to glance down and see the smoking wound just below the edge of the saddle.

Then she felt the fire on her own skin, the goo working through the layers of her coat and clothes; sliding off even before they came to a stop, she shoved her arm into a bank of snow. The icy coldness chilled her skin and counteracted the burn. Scooping up a handful, she whispered calm words as she packed the horse’s wound, pulling her blanket free from her bedroll and applying pressure. The animal calmed, and Natasha breathed a sigh of relief.

“Help me.” The woman in the nightgown stood just a few feet away. “Please. I don’t want … it hurts. Make him stop hurting me.”

“Who? Who’s  hurting you? Tell me so I can help you.” Stepping back, Natasha kept a careful distance between them.

“So much hate. So cold. He’s …” she flickered blue and then black and back. “Evil. Pure evil. I can’t … my children. Save my children.”

She melted away, leaving only a heaving darkness in her pace, tendrils crawling across the ground. Ducking, Natasha swung up, directing the splatter away from her with the force of her motion. Blobs hit the snow, hissing as they turned to steam.

“Tasha!” Steven’s shout grabbed her attention. Barreling down the path, the wagon took a turn, almost coming up on two wheels. Ghosts were converging on it, clambering up the sides and onto the roof. Sam was swinging a skillet at two little boys who were trying to climb onto the seat with him.  With a flick of his wrist, Steven sent his shield spinning in an arc, cutting through five shadows before it returned to him.

Foot in the stirrup, she mounted her horse who was more than willing to get out of here. Singer’s compound wasn’t much further; they pounded down the road, fighting off attacks and ducking splatter as best they could until the gate came into view. A line of ghosts blocked the road; there was no getting around them.

The others backed off as the wagon came to a halt, Sam pulling hard to bring the unhappy horses to a stop. Ringed by shadows, dread settled in Natasha’s gut. If they had a way to get Singer’s attention …

“Steven.” A red headed man with a bushy mustache stepped out of the pack, his bowler firmly on his head.

“Timothy,” Steven replied, his face pale. “I thought you were buried at the Abbey.”

“Decided to stay near the wife and kids,” Timothy Dugan replied. Now that she had a name, Natasha could match the description from the legends to the man she saw before her. “Look, we don’t want to do this, but we’ve got no choice. I’m keeping him at bay right now, but he’s strong, stronger than even me.”

The gate. She just needed to get it open and they could plough through to safety. Without thinking, she let her horse dance a little closer to Steven and she dropped her hand so her fingers brushed his thigh. Even through the leather, the jolt of the bond soothed her, strength pouring into her. Her thoughts calmed, and she saw clearly what needed to be done.

“Who?” Steven asked. “Let me help all of you, Tim.”

Time slowed; Natasha slipped out of the saddle, her eyes on the gate’s latch. The conversation faded as she glided forward, long slow breaths and even heartbeats.

“He’s old. Older than us. Something’s woken him and he won’t let us rest.” Timothy clenched his fists into the collars of the two boys who were little more than writing forms of energy, slathering to be let loose.

“The Sorcerer?” Steven asked.

Passing through a shade almost broke her concentration; like an ice storm, the foggy mist surrounded her, but she kept her focus and was at the gate in just a few more steps.

Timothy closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Steven. I can’t keep them much longer …”

The wrought iron latch lifted easily and she swung the doors outward, using them like a weapon to disapate any ghost in their way. “Go!” she shouted, stepping over the threshold to get out of the way. To their credit, Sam and Steven reacted instantly; Sam flicked the reins and let the horses have their head, wagon lurching as they darted towards the gate. Grabbing the bridle of Natasha’s horse, Steven got there first, jumping off to swing his shield at the ghosts in Sam’s way. Two shadows got a handhold on the wagon’s side; as they passed through the gate, they screamed and exploded.

They stopped just inside, the ghosts hovering on the road. Dugan stood staring at them then threw his head back and laughed. “Always find the best companions, don’t you?” He flashed them a grin. “The Cairns. Go to the Cairns.”

One by one the shades faded away. Sam’s head thunked back against the wood and he sighed dramatically. “Well, damn, that was more excitement that I’ve had in a long time. I’ve got two questions, though. First, who’s going to help me fix the holes in the wagon? And second, since when can you go invisible Nat?”

* * *

 

The snow had started just as the trestle tables filled up for Dax’s winter vegetable soup and shepherd’s pie. The hall was warm and filled with the yeasty smell of fresh bread; the dull roar of voices rose and fell as food appeared. Laughter rang out, and Philip couldn’t help but think how nice it was, this comfortable community of people who were gathered together. Growing up, Philip had been used to a sharper division between nobles and the people, a sense of decorum drummed into him as a heir to one of the largest holding in the Midlands. But Clint had taught him that showing how much he cared, letting others see who he really was, wasn’t a weakness but a sharing of strength.

Bruce was on Philip’s left, Clint on his right. Philip turned his head and saw his sister Darcy, her eyes alight with mischief, talking animatedly with Jessica, probably teasing her about Jessica’s growing interest in Fandral, Thor’s thane. The two had much in common from their senses of humor to their fighting styles. It seemed everyone was pairing off. Darcy and Bruce were still very much in the honeymoon stage, sharing kisses and always touching each other. The low hum of their bond combined with Philip’s own magic whenever they were near; he was happy to see his sister rising to the challenge of her own talents. Fandral caught Jessica’s eyes and winked from his place by Thor who used his height to snag the crusty end of the fresh loaf for Jane. Philip knew that Thor had spoken to Bruce about a handfasting ceremony, a way to make a promise to Jane before they obtained his parents’ permission to marry. On her part, Jane gazed adoringly at the blonde-haired prince, looking at him the same way she studied the stars, with wonder and love.

The Winchester brothers were further down the table, taking Steven and Sam’s places; Carol sat between them and Philip bit his bottom lip to keep from smiling as he saw her hair loose and curled around her face, her usual braid undone. She was definitely showing interest in the younger brother, Samuel, and watching her flirt would have been more awkward if Samuel hadn’t been as bad at it as Carol was. Nudging Clint with his elbow, Philip cut his eyes Carol’s way; Clint’s gaze followed and a grin spread across his face.

“Jess is going to have a field day with that,” Clint whispered to Philip.

“Jess helped dress her,” Darcy filled in, leaning out to speak over Bruce. “We’re encouraging this.”

“To clarify, Jess and Darcy are meddling,” Bruce said, sipping from his mug of cider. “I have nothing to do with the grand plan.”

“Oh, really? Who was just talking about how Annamarie needs someone in her life?” Darcy arched an eyebrow at her husband and he flushed, red crawling up his neck.

“Darcy. Remember the rule about pillow talk?” Bruce coughed and sat his mug down.

“That we should have more of it?” She smiled a saucy grin his way, tangling her fingers with his. “To move openly together in the pull of gravity,” she murmured to him, and Philip felt the pulse of power that flowed through their bond, spreading out to all those who were connected.

Bruce leaned towards her, his eyes gone soft as he squeezed her hand. “Not at the table,” he said just before he brushed a kiss on her cheek. “Later.”

Leaving them to their personal conversation, Philip looked out over the full tables and made a mental note to see about adding more seating in the back. If they turned a few longways, they could comfortably fit at least two full tables. He let his vision blur just enough to see the auras that hung around people, some faint, others strong and bright. So many people with talents gathered in one hall. Strands of energy ran between them; Philip and Clint’s strong purple tangle of magic was joined by Bruce and Darcy’s green and cranberry, weaving down the table, collecting the rest before spreading out among the people below the dias. Thor and Jane were a knot of red and light brown, already mingling into one thread.

The oldest Winchester, Dean, was olive green, bright and strong; as Philip and Clint’s purple wrapped around him, he glanced up, squinted in concentration as he looked around. His nostrils flared as if he was scenting the air then the turned and caught Philip’s eyes. Philip nodded and smiled; Dean relaxed and went back to his conversation with Luke Cage.

Most interesting was Samuel Winchester’s dark brown that extended out cautiously to brush against Carol’s blue. As Carol passed the bread, their fingers brushed, and tiny tendrils of their auras touched, sparking.

“I hope he can keep up with her,” Clint said, following Philip’s gaze. “Carol’s worth the effort.”  A warm heavy hand stroked along Philip’s knee. “You are too, you know. Worth everything.”

He couldn’t blame it on Darcy’s magic; Clint always made him feel this way, unsteady and needy for every touch. When Clint removed his hand, Phil felt the loss keenly; power welled up, needing a place to go. This time, he grounded himself on Clint’s thigh, shaping the magic into a simple spell. Not invisibility, just the impulse to avoid looking closely, not notice anything out of place.

Samuel asked Clint a question about the Abbey; Phil took advantage of the distraction to drag his fingers along the inseam of Clint’s pants, his palm rubbing along the leather. Muscles tensed as Clint reacted but continued answering Samuel’s question. Pouring a little more power into the spell, Philip skated his fingertips higher, teasing the bulge between Clint’s legs, feeling Clint’s cock stir in response.

The music shimmered between them, Phil seeing it more as energy than hearing the distinct notes that were his husband’s magic. A vibration that sank into his skin and went right to his own crotch, stirring him to push further. He slid closer, bringing his shoulder into contact with Clint’s, aligning their legs from knee to hip. They were both far enough under the table to afford a modicum privacy so Phil turned his hand over and cupped Clint’s bulge. He rubbed along the seam of Clint’s pants, pressing it into the sensitive skin behind his balls.

Clint grunted and shifted, rolling his neck and biting his lip. With just a little lean, Phil brought his lips to Clint’s ear, almost brushing the skin as he whispered, “Dinner is delicious. I wonder what’s for dessert?”

“Oh, I imagine it will be as good as always.” Clint tilted his hips up into Phil’s hand. “I’m looking forward to it.”

It would be easy to drop a kiss behind Clint’s ear, and Phil couldn’t think of a reason not to, so he did, palming Clint’s cock at the same time. Clint shivered and cut his eyes over to Phil, a question in the blue depths. Phil wasn’t given to displays of affection in public, at least he didn’t use to. Clint had changed all of that.

Dessert, it turned out, were small pies, fried in oil until crisp and brown then rolled in cinnamon and sugar while still hot. Inside was a filling of dried apples, plump raisins, and a hint of spice that stayed on the tongue. A wedge of yellow cheese came with it, sharp cheddar that matched the tartness of the apples. Eating one handed, Phil broke his pie apart; fragrant steam rose as the filling oozed out. Clint did the same and scooped up some of the sweetness on his finger, popping it into his mouth and sucking it off.

Phil bit back a moan at the sight of Clint’s finger disappearing between his lips. A tiny line of saliva dribbled off as he pulled it back out; Phil squeezed in response, earning a mischevous grin from his husband. In retailiation, Phil picked up half of his pie and bit into it, letting the apples ooze out the corner of his lips so he could wipe it up with his thumb and licked it off. Cock filling out, Clint shifted and brought himself more firmly into Phil’s palm. They went on that way, one upping each other. Clint caught a drop with the tip of his tongue, Phil snapped the cheese with his teeth, chewing slowly as he stroked. Sugar coated their fingers to be sucked off.

“Gentlemen.” Annamarie laid a hand on both their shoulders and Phil jumped in his chair. “Look what you’re doing.”

While he’d been flirting with Clint, Phil had stopped paying attention to the others in the hall. Now the scanned the room and saw the magic at work. Darcy’s hand was buried in Bruce’s curls, her body turned towards his; she opened her mouth and took the bite he offered, catching the tips of his fingers with her lips. Fandral’s fingers drew patterns on Jessica’s cheek as he leaned in to hear her laugh. Thor’s arm rested along the back of Jane’s chair, his hand on her shoulder, curling her close as he stared, besotted, into her eyes. And Samuel’s hand covered Carol’s, their fingers entwined. At the benches below, laughter and touching and smiles were all around, the guard Ada sitting on Dooley’s lap, Andrew between two of the new guards, arms around both.

“I think now is a good time to discuss the preventative measures? In the study or somewhere else?” She tapped her fingers lightly but her message was clear. To break the spell Phil had spun, they would need to leave the room.  

Pushing back from the table, Phil followed Clint as he rose, making his excuses as they exited. The passion still simmered, Phil’s eyes drawn to the flex of Clint’s ass, leather of his pants molding to the curve, the lithe way he moved. Need overwhelmed him and they barely made it through the study doorway before they were on each other, yanking at clothing and fusing their mouths together. A struggle -- Clint pressed Phil against the desk then Phil twirled him around and slammed Clint against the wall -- and rush to feel skin to skin. Too demanding to take their time, Phil freed Clint’s cock and slotted his own beside it, sliding them together and moaning at the friction of the leather and ties.

Sinking into Clint’s mouth was like coming home; the bond opened and Philip breathed in Clint, his music and his unique taste. His hands circled Clint’s biceps, holding him firmly against the stone; Clint tugged Phil’s shirt up and wrapped his palms around the bare curve of Phil’s waist. Then they kissed and ground against each other until Philip felt the magic swirling in time to the tension in his gut, tiny sparks of electricity dancing across their skin. Rather than falling down into his coming orgasm, Philip was buoyed up, like floating on a rising tide, pushed up as he jerked and began to come. The release freed his mind and he went spiraling out of his body, tethered by Clint’s touch.

He raced through the hallway, the main hall, and the entryway, passing both real and ghostly figures as he went. So many souls mingling together under one roof, long years of living and dying and loving and hurting. Everywhere, traces of black goo clung to the shadowy folk, their faces twisted in agony as if in mortal pain. He hurtled out the doorway and down through the town; more shadows, more blackness, more suffering. Out to the Abbey where legions of grey figures writhed; the dragon raised her head and a spectral figure rose, her ghostly shade of past death bending her neck and offering a seat.

Then Philip was flying, circling hamlets and towns. The McCarters, overrun with battle weary men and sad women. Caine’s Cross, children tagging along behind their parents, lost and scared. Hawk’s Leap, bandits and scavengers, unable to rest. Anywhere there were graveyards, where people onced lived. So many, all of them stirring awake because of the dark spots that dotted the land. From on high, Philip could see the pattern, the spread of the disease, for that was what it reminded him of; a plague of miasma that was engulfing the holding.

His mount circled the center, dropping low enough for Philip to see the mounds, to feel the evil welling up from the oldest of them. As he flew closer, the blackness formed a hand and reached up for him, snatching at his feet as if to tumble him off and drag him down. His ankle burned when touched, and Philip jerked back, the dragon flapped her wings and lifting them on an air current, out of range.

“Phil!” Clint’s voice was shouting and the pull of the bond became insistent, demanding he return. Banking, the dragon shifted and Philip was falling, the air rushing around him as he slammed back into his body. Clint face loomed over him, familiar hands cradling his face. “Phil. Come back.”

“I’m here,” Philip said, pushing up from the floor. “That was scary.”

“Yes, it was. You just collapsed,” Clint agreed. “What happened?”

“I think I know what the problem is,” Philip told his husband. “I need to do some research.”

“You might want to lace your pants up first,” Clint told him with a grin.

* * *

 

She was exhausted, more so than she should be even after a day of travel and race to the end. What she’d done, the … magic … she’d used, had drained her energy in a ways she’d never experienced. Following the conversation was getting difficult, but she’d never admit she was going let her heavy eyelids win. Curled up in a chair, she tucked her chin on her knee and tried to focus.

“Okay, we can rule out poltergeists.” Singer closed the book he was looking at and sat it aside. “Any luck on spectres?”

“This is like pulling taffy,” Sam said. He was running his finger along the scalloped edge. “This author writes in circles and I swear half the words are Itekan.”

“Yeah, Alosious was pretty full of himself; he made his own language so only the initiates could read his visions.” Robert picked up another tome. “Had dreams about coffee and wrote a whole book on beans.”

“And I’m wasting my time on him because?” Sam asked.

“He was cloistered at Transall Luna. He knows his stuff about ghosts.”

Sam whistled. “I’ve ridden past there. The stories alone will curl your hair. It’s unnerving in the broad daylight.”

Natasha’s chin dipped, eyes gritty; she rubbed at them and jerked her head back up. She saw Steve bite back a grin, knowing he’d caught the movement. Truth was, Sam was definitely droopy as well, and even Singer was grumbling and blinking grit out of his eyes.

“Well, gentlemen, I believe I’ve had enough excitement for the evening.” The windows reflected her image as she stood and stretched, the blackness of the night like a mirror for the warm light of candles and fire. “I’ll take the dawn shift.”

“No need for staying awake. I added some nighttime wards; we’ll know if anything even breathes on the wall,” Singer said. He tucked a leather strip in the crease of the book before closing it. “We can all get some sleep. Katherine’s got your rooms ready upstairs, just help yourself like always.”

Rather than waiting on the others, Natasha picked up her bag where it lay by the door and took the stairs two at a time. The wooden treads creaked with age, alerting anyone upstairs of her arrival. Last time, she’d shared a room with Jessica, a smaller one at the back; now, she took the one Philip and Clint used with its larger bed and shared bathing room. Singer’s house was unique, it’s wood and lathe construction no longer in vogue. There simply weren’t enough craftsman who knew how to design and implement the style; even fewer were glassworkers capable of making such thin and perfectly clear panes like the ones in the four quartered windows.

Stripping out of her vest, she sat in the small chair, unlaced her boots and pulled them off. Under her shirt and pants, she wore woolen linens to protect from the cold; they made for very comfortable sleeping attire. She caught up her clean pair and switched them for the ones she had on, hanging the sweaty ones in the bathing room to air out. Perching on the edge of the bed, she untangled her hair and began to brush out the tangles.

“You need help with that?” Steven asked, leaning against the door jamb, his bag at his feet.

She let her eyes roam from the toes of his brown boots, up his leather clad thighs, lingering on his groin, across the broad expanse of his chest, and to the blue eyes that remained friendly and open. Deliberately, she licked her bottom lip and turned to display her profile, aware of how the woolens clung to her curves.

“Sure,” she all but purred. Best to let this happen, she thought. It wasn’t as if she didn’t find him attractive; in fact, she’d never been this interested in a man as she was for both Steven and James. She’d woken from very explicit dreams to find herself wet between her thighs, her breasts aching to be touched. That never happened to her; sex was sex in her experience. It could be enjoyable, didn’t have to be painful, but all those stories of being driven crazy by lust were just that. Stories. Sex was as more about power and alliance and revenge and control than it was about love and pleasure. She’d learned that lesson early on. Most men could be easily led by dangling the possibility of a romp in bed. And those who weren’t were dangerous.

“You’ve got that down, don’t you?” Steven didn’t move, crossing his arms across his chest and returning her look with a steady gaze. “The seductress. I imagine that’s useful for gathering information.”

“You have no idea,” Natasha replied, a little unnerved by Steven’s failure to respond in the way she expected. “People give up just about everything if they think you’re a weak woman who’s easily seduced.”

“I’m sorry you had to learn that.” He was so damn sincere that she dropped her eyes so he wouldn’t see how that statement affected her. “But then we’ve all done what we have to in order to survive.”

She snorted, a very unladylike reply that pushed her out of character. “Oh, I can’t wait to hear what terrible things you did. If we cracked you open, there’d be nothing but rainbows inside.”

“You believe that?” His voice grew more brittle. “When you’re hungry, you’ll sell anything, even your own family members, for food.”

Serious, that’s what his eyes were now; he meant it. She didn’t mean to do it, but the bond was tugging at her heart and she dropped the facade for a moment, letting him see her naked self reflected in her face. “That and much worse,” she agreed.

He looked torn for a second, struggling with his resolve, then he picked up his bag and tucked it in the corner of the room, shutting the door behind it. “I don’t want to sleep alone tonight; if you tell me to leave now, I will.”

Need and confusion slammed into her, Steven’s emotions boiling over into the bond. She’d forgotten that Dugan was Steven’s friend; today he’d faced a ghost from his past and it was probably only the beginning. “I like the right side,” she said, holding the brush out. “Can you braid hair?”

Relieved, Steven smiled. “Indeed I can.”

Settling next to her, he didn’t start brushing right away, instead gently working his fingers through the length of red silky hair. He made section, untangling the worst of the knots with just the right amount of pressure -- not too hard to make her scalp ache, but enough to free the strands. As she got used to his presence, Natasha began to relax, the tiny tugs like a massage. Steven’s knee bumped the outside of her thigh, his folded leg brushing along her back. If he was aroused, she couldn’t tell; he kept enough distance to be no more than body heat and an occasional breath against her skin. He began to hum in the back of his throat as his carefully continued, and Natasha found herself dropping her guard, the knowledge that he would protect her strong and sure.

By the time Steve picked up the brush, Natasha was half-asleep. A wide yawn almost cracked her jaw, the rhythm of the strokes soothing. At some point, she recognized the tune, part of a longer tale of a cursed woman and the knight who freed her by letting her choose her own fate. The words eluded her; something about not changing the color of her hair and having someone to talk to. When he began to weave three sections together, she exhaled, long and slow. Steven’s strength held her safe; she could let go and sleep.

“In you go,” he whispered in her ear, guiding her down, drawing up the covers and tucking her in. “I’ll be here.”

She hovered on the edge, registering his movements as he undressed down to his own woolen bottoms, finally sliding in behind her. Half expecting him to curl up to her back, she waited, but he stayed on his side of the bed until she rolled onto her back and reached for his  hand. Splaying it on her stomach, just under the edge of her top, she rested her palm on top of it. Lifting her other arm, the one nearest to him, she lay it on the pillow by her head, elbow bent and forearm grazing the top of her head. In seconds, Steve’s other arm slid across the pillow, his fingers entwining with hers on the cool surface. He linked an ankle over hers, tucked his nose into her shoulder and sighed.

If he kept his hips from touching hers, well, Natasha just might be grateful for it.

_“No! No! No! Do it again. And get it right this time!” He loomed over her, blocking the only light from the open door, hand raised with a slender length of whipcord thin branch in his fist. “Faster. Smoother. Or I’ll feed you to the dogs.”_

_Her hands shook as she took a trembling breath and started to walk past him. She bumped, dipped, caught, and pocketed his watch in one smooth move. Triumphant, she held it up to him, her stomach rumbling from hunger._

_“Passable. Barely.” He snatched it back and the switch fell on her bare arms; she cried out before she could stop herself. “No dinner for you; children should be seen and not heard.”_

_She was running, her boots slipping in the slushy remains of the last snow, tripping over hidden tufts of dead grass as she climbed up and then slid back down. She dare not look behind, every hair on her neck standing on end at the whisper of what followed.  Voices cried all of her names, murmurs, whispers, shouts, and screams._

_“Smile,” the woman hissed, pinching hard on the back of her bare thigh. “Head up, back straight, stick your breasts out, what little you have. Remember, the big one with the red beard. Get him to follow you outside.”_

_Her stomach churned, corset tied too tight to thrust up her breasts. She was sweating in the hot taproom; the heavy rouge felt like it weighed down her cheeks. The smell was overwhelming: sweat and alcohol and cloying cologne. Brawny men, off duty guards, filled the benches and she knew what their hands were like, meaty paws that clawed and grasped, fetid breath that made her want to gag._

_“Wench!” One of the men seated at the same table as her mark called her. “More beer!”_

_Shadows crept towards her, cutting off her escape route. She slipped and went down, hitting her knee hard on a rocky outcropping. Scrambling up, she felt a gust of bone chilling cold and she shivered as she dragged herself up and kept going, the darkness nipping at her feet._

_“Natalia!” He called after her, catching her arm._

_She reacted instantly, flipping him over her shoulder until he was flat on his back, crushing her knee into his chest. Brown hair fell over the dark mask that hid his features._

_“It was your job, wasn’t it? Keep me under control.” A cold metal hand wrapped around her ankle; she shifted the grip on her knife and pressed it against his throat. “ And I thought I knew cold. Was sleeping with me part of the plan? Get me to trust you?”_

_The ground gave way under her foot, a dark pit opening, impenetrable inky black reaching up and circling her foot, crawling along her skin. Fear, real, palpable, flooded her; her control shattered and she screamed and the goo began to burn through her skin. She was falling, her legs disappearing down the hole that yawned wider; the slushy snow gave no purchase to stop her descent._

A warmth enveloped her, wrapped her with strong arms and held on.

_A hand circled her wrist; a flow of power crackled along her arm and through her body as Steven braced himself and tugged. The blackness tightened its hold and Steven lost his footing, tumbling forward._

“Shhhhh.” The bed dipped as he sat on the edge, his hand mingling with theirs. “You’re safe. We’ve you.”

_A metal hand caught her other flailing arm, adding his strength to theirs. Light exploded, driving the darkness back. Sagging into their grips, she felt the sear of their palms on her skin, the bond burning white hot._

She cracked her eyes as he started to pull away. “Stay,” she murmured, refusing to let his hand go.

He shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Get in bed, Bucky,” Steven said. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

With a sigh, James kicked off his boots and tossed aside his jacket; he climbed in and curled up to Natasha, wrapping an arm around her waist and tucking the other under the pillow. All too easy their breathing synced and slowed. Surprisingly, Natasha didn’t feel trapped at all, but completely safe; she fell back asleep with the smell of forest in her nose and Steve’s breath in her hair.

 

 


	6. A Haunting Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony arrives, Bucky stays, and Clint meets a ghost from his past.

“Bucky.”

He knew that voice, as familiar as his own heartbeat. Burrowing down into the warm bed, the soft covers and pillow that smelled like saffron, he faded back into sleep.

“You going to snooze the day away, buddy?”

A hand tousled his hair, fingertips brushing the curve of his ear.

“Go ‘way, Stevie,” he mumbled, curling his legs up and tucking his face under the edge of the blanket. “Sleepin’ here.”

That laugh, half exhale of breath and chuckle; he could feel the stir of hairs on his neck from Steven’s touch. He was still tired, so tired, exhausted all the way down to his bones, as if he’d barely gotten any rest at all. What he wanted was to roll over and drop back down into that delicious nothingness that refreshed him.

“We’ve got a pot of chicken stew, bread fresh from the oven and a big pot of coffee downstairs. I know your stomach will get you up,” Steven told him.

He turned his head and sniffed, the scent of yeasty bread in the air; his stomach rumbled and clenched as if he hadn’t eaten in days.  “Lots of coffee?” he asked.

Steven laughed out loud. “Enough to fill up your empty leg.”

“Is he always like this?” Natasha asked from somewhere nearby.

James bolted up, coming fully awake in seconds, memories crashing in on him. Shoving the covers down, he tried to kick his legs free, but Steven was weighing them down.

“I’ve got to get out of here. How long?” His mind raced, trying to piece together how the others could have gotten out of bed without him noticing. He didn’t sleep anymore, and nowhere near deep enough to miss people crawling over him. This was why he couldn’t be with them; they threw him off his game and he was going to get one of them killed.

“It’s almost sundown. You’ve been asleep all day.” Steven caught James by the shoulders, hands curling around the bare biceps. The pressure felt so good that James wanted to lean into it, lay back down and take Steven with him, curl up and not leave. But he couldn’t.

“They’re following me. By now they’ll know where I am.” Run, his mind told him even though his muscles and his heart didn’t agree. Keep Steven and Natalia safe.

“If you’re talking about the ghosts, they’re following us as well, so that’s a wash as an argument. Better to fight them off in a group than by yourself.” Natasha’s hair was damp; she was brushing a comb through the ends as she leaned against the door that led into the bathing room. “And if you’re talking about the Sorcerer and that Knight in green and yellow, we’re being watched, so you’re in good company.”

“Singer’s place is warded and protected,” Steven told him. “In fact, Robert’s anxious to find out how you got in without tripping any of the alarms. He wants to know how to plug the hole.”

“You don’t understand,” James argued. They thought this was about a location spell or something simple. It wasn’t. “I’m not myself. They own me.”

“Geas spell or whatever, we’ll figure out how to get around it,” Steven promised, so earnest and sincere. He always thought there was an answer to every problem, ever the optimist. James was the realist of the pair. “You’re here now and I’m not letting you go.”

“Steve.” James’ will almost broke when Steven slipped a hand around his face, cradling his scruffy jawline and stroking with his fingers. Turning his head, James fitted his cheek into Steven’s palm and closed his eyes. “They can make me do things. Oh, gods above, the things I’ve done.”

“I don’t care.” Steven tilted his face up. “Look at me, Buck.” James opened his eyes and almost fell into the depths of blue, the bond gliding back to full strength as if it had never been broken. “They can’t have you. I love you. You’re ours and that’s the end of it.”

He wished it were that simple. “No, it’s not. Let me go, Steve. I’m not worth fighting for.”

“Neither am I.” Natasha stopped just behind where Steve was seated on the edge of the bed. “When it comes to things I regret, I bet I can match you one-for-one. I’ll never pay off the debt I owe for my actions. But I met this boy who taught me that I had a choice and I had to start making the right ones. It’s not going to be easy, I know. But there are people who will help, who’ve been where you are.”

“No, they haven’t.” James shook his head. “Unless they’ve been kept on ice forever and turned into a weapon for evil, they can’t understand.”

“Buck,” Steven murmured. “You’re not ..”

“Don’t. You can’t fathom it, Steve. You woke up one day and centuries had passed; I lived and lost hope.” Pushing Steven back, James felt the deep stab of loneliness, the long wait like a constant dripping of water, wearing away any hope.

“You’re right, he can’t,” Natasha said. Such world weariness in her voice, so young and yet infinitely old like James. “None of this is about what we deserve, James. The world doesn’t work that way. If it did, those innocent spirits out there wouldn’t be stirred with such rage. We know better than to be in morality tales and nursery stories; life isn’t fair or  equitable. All we can do is take what’s offered us and deal with each day in turn.”

“It won’t be the same and I’ll only bring more problems if I stay.” That was the truth; how could he be what Steven expected? He was cold as winter now, not the young innocent he’d been who believed that love could conquer all.

“Of course it won’t be the same,” Steven said. He glanced over his shoulder towards Natasha. “We’re going to be better.”

He snorted at that pronouncement; only Steven would make such an absolute statement. “Well, you haven’t changed; you think a thousand years under water and you’d learn something new.”

“You know you like me the way I am,” Steven teased, that little twinkle in his eye that made James melt. “And since you reminded me how long it’s been …”

When Stevens hands tangled in James’ hair, he gave in to the impulse and let himself drawn closer He knew what Steven’s kisses were like; they’d kissed in so many different ways over their years together, making up for the time they’d lost as stubborn men, avoiding their attraction. The spell he’d been under, that had kept him alive, wasn’t like sleeping; no, James had dreamed, vivid images that felt so real. He’d had Steven in his arms over and over, touching and kissing him until James was ripped back into reality. Eventually, the dreams became darker, filled with blood and death as any sliver of hope was shattered.

This wasn’t like his dreams where everything was perfect. Steven’s lips were chapped, rough around the edges from the winter wind. His fingers were rough against James’ skin, and his breath smelled of coffee and onions. A cold draft seeped around the window sill, chilling the skin on James’ back and he knew his hair was dank and dirty, too long unwashed. And it was those details that made James believe this was real, not some fantasy manufactured by magic. This was like nights in tents, nothing more than a blanket between them and the cold ground. Rough tree bark against his back, icy water for bathing and warm hands for touching. Muddy skin, days on the road, forgetting what a mattress even felt like had never stopped them.

“I’ll go make sure those scavengers leave enough stew,” Natasha said from the doorway. “Take your time.”

“You don’t have to leave,” Steven said without turning around.

“Explain it to him, James,” she replied with a laugh. “I’ll be downstairs.”

“Next time, Natalia,” he said before she shut the door on her way out.

“I keep running her off.” Steven ran his hands up and down James’ shoulders. “I’m trying to take it slow but it’s three steps back to one forward. Why do you call her Natalia?”

“We crossed paths once. She was maybe five or six-years-old and a damn fine pickpocket already.” The memory of those green eyes had haunted him until he saw her again and realized why. “She has a good reason to mistrust men. You’ll just have to give her time.”

“We’ll do it together.” Steven’s stubborn nature mean that he wasn’t going to give up. He never had; James was going to have to keep pushing him away for his own good.

“Steve …” He began but Steven’s lips cut him off, demanding submission; James moaned into the warm depths of Steven’s mouth. “That’s not … fair,” he whispered between kisses.

“I fight dirty, remember?” Using his weight, Steven carried James back onto the bed, covering his body with his own. “Give me this. I need you, Buck. Please.”

How could James refuse? So long since he’d known Steven’s touch, each brush was electric, lighting up his skin, trails of fire that stirred his cock and had him arching up for more friction in no time at all. He could fight it, but why? He’d snuck in last night to make sure they were okay, to stand watch over them, but he couldn’t deny what his body wanted. What his heart craved. The energy of their bond refreshing his tired soul. James wasn’t sure what he missed most: Steven’s kiss, the feel of his body, his rock solid surety, or his shared strength. Once upon a time, James had had it all and he’d never forget those years of unconditional love and acceptance. Even if they’d known there was a third, a missing component, their time together had been the best James had ever known.

“Yes.” James’s hands pulled at Steve’s jerkin and they began to frantically rip off their clothes. Sitting up and straddling James,  Steven’s shirt went over his head, and James ran his hand over the muscular plane of Steven’s chest, grinding his hips up. “Gods, Steve,” he moaned. “This is going to be fast.”

“You have no idea how much I want you.” Steven dropped to his hands, levering his body above James’ and slotting their cocks together through the leather of their pants. “I’ll take fast or slow or anything.”

It was a race to the finish, too long had James withheld himself even the pleasure of his own hand. He didn’t complain when his pants hung up around his knees and got trapped there; once Steven freed himself, that was all the needed, a few thrusts, more hot kisses and the explosion of their bond that wrapped around their bodies and hummed, brighter and stronger than before. Then James was coming, slick fluid making Steven’s slides easier until he tipped over himself, collapsing on top of James as they both breathed hard.

“You’re heavier than I remember,” James grumbled good naturedly.

“Ha, ha,” Steven said but he made no move to roll off. Instead, he kissed James again, slow and leisurely. “If I get up are you going to run?”

“Probably.” James told the truth.

“At least stay for some food. I can feel your ribs. What I really need to do is take you back to Barton Manor and let Dax, the chef, fatten you up. Man is a genius with spices and you should try Annamarie’s pasties.” Steven nuzzled James’s neck, nipping at his earlobe. “They’re adding a rainfall shower bath in the new wing. A room where water falls from the ceiling and I could fuck you up against a wall.”

“I know what you’re trying to do, but it won’t work.” James sighed, half from hopelessness and half from the shiver of want Steven’s mouth caused as he worked his way down the muscle in James’ neck.

“Oh, I know how to get you to stay.” Steven sucked a bruise where the muscle attached to James’ collarbone. “We’re going to the Cairns; Dum Dum told me that’s where this evil is coming from.”

That drew James up short. He’d been trying to track down the origin of the vengeful spirits but had made no headway. “Dugan? You saw his ghost?”

“A whole group attacked us on the way here. He managed to talk to me. Something dark is stirring them up, taking them over.”

“Damn.” James bounced his head against the pillow in frustration. If Steven and Natasha went, they’d be in serious danger. “Fine. I’ll go with you but once this is over …”

“You’re leaving. I get that.” Steven flinched as he said the words and James felt a pang of guilt. “Let’s clean up and go downstairs so you can eat. I’ll introduce you to Sam and Singer and you can add anything you know to the discussion.”

* * *

Clint crossed the soggy practice field, his mind caught up in plans. The snow hadn’t deterred Carol’s drilling schedule; new and old guard alike were ankle deep in the muddy slush, paired off and working with staffs. The crack of wood against wood filled the crisp cold air along with huffs of breaths. Life kept going despite the fear that clouded the town and manor. Even the bravest trembled at the sight of dead loved ones. Parents were keeping children close, and many a new ward was appearing on the doors and walls of buildings. People remembered the old ways, stories their grandparents and great grandparents told them. Riders had been sent to other places to buy out stocks of salt and Luke Cage had been busy cutting iron rods of all lengths.

Now they had a direction; Phil had seen a darkness calling all the ghosts from their rest. It felt good to have something to do while he waited on Bruce, Samuel, and Philip to track down obscure references. There were protection runes to be scratched in walls, an expedition to provision and man. Officially, the cairns weren’t on Barton land, but he’d be damned if let some evil get a foothold anywhere near his people.

Horses rounded the turn in the road, riding up from town at a fast trot. Clint paused, far enough to avoid the splash of muddy sludge kicked up by heels; as they came into sight, he recognized James Rhodes in the lead with a few of his men behind. Stray strands of strawberry blonde hair escaped from the hood of another rider; Virginia Potts herself it seemed, but covered. And a strange figure in what looked like an ancient smattering of old armor, blunt edged helmet down to conceal the face, was between them.

The power hit Clint square in the chest, knocking him back a step. He felt Phil’s bond spring to life, a flow of confused thoughts pouring into Clint’s mind. Other lines converged and he could hear each of their music coming together. Bruce’s bass line, Darcy’s quick melody, Carol’s trumpet volley, Jessica’s walking rhythm, Thor’s marshall theme. Faint, but present, were two new sounds, a rocky riff repeated with a counterpoint. The music swelled and the armored figure’s chest glowed, a bright aura that beamed forth and added a guitar run, fast and furious, driving all of them to a crescendo.

“Lord Barton?” Rhodes drew his horse to a stop.

Clint shook his head to clear it, the music so loud he almost couldn’t respond. “Thane Rhodes,” he managed to reply. “You have news?”

“Indeed.” Rhodes’ face remained impassive. “But it is best for indoors. Will you share pinion for the ride up the hill?”

His eyes on the strangely armored knight, Clint absently nodded. “I won’t say no to a lift.”

A mismatched gauntlet reached down and Clint swung up behind the man before Rhodes could offer. “Up you go, Hawk,” a distorted voice said. “I hear Frasiers can fly. Is that true?”

“Only if I smoke the wrong thing,” Clint retorted.

The armored man laughed, his suit vibrating. Up close, Clint could see the haphazard way it was put together, leather thongs tied and spot welds with hammer dimples. “Oh, I think I’m going to like you. Especially if you have some of the wrong things around. A nice glass of whiskey would do for a start.”

“I think we can handle that,” Clint promised Lord Stark.

By the time they got to the manor, Philip was already at the doorway and the main hall was emptied but for the gathering of those who already knew of Stark’s kidnapping. Annamarie had pitchers of water and cider on the table and glasses for the bottles of Thomas made whiskey. She’d also brought out a selection of pastries left from breakfast and some meat rolls in case the travelers were hungry. The three guards were more than willing to take themselves back to the guard house for a bath, food and sleep, turning their protection detail over to Clint’s people.

As soon as the doors were closed, Stark removed his helmet and sat it on a table, taking the full glass of amber liquid and downing half of it in one swallow. He coughed, let out a long sigh, and slumped onto a bench near enough to reach the bottle for a refill.

“Damn fine whiskey,” he said. “One of your holder makes it, yes? Hard to get hold of the good stuff in town. I should come up this way more often.”

Anthony Stark was a handsome man; Clint had seen him twice before, once before he left home, when his grandparents had taken him to Burosey. Six years old than Clint, Stark had been a teenager, gangly with a head of dark wavy hair. Even then, the girls had lined up to see him, swooning as he walked through the marketplace, hoping for him to glance their way. Later, Clint had crossed paths with Stark in the Capitol; with his flashing eyes and smile that promised he knew exactly how to please someone, Stark was the darling of the young set at Court, frequenting the gaming hells and brothels, dropping more money in one night than Clint and Natasha could steal in years. That’s where he’d seen Stark, at a gaming table, rolling dance after a statuesque blonde blew on them for luck.

Now, Stark looked tired. A series of bruises ran along one side of his face and down his neck, mottled with yellow as they healed. Lines ran from the corners of his eyes, blue eyes that were shrouded by memories of pain and anguish. But his jaw was set, a firm resolve in the way he moved with deliberation that hadn’t been there before.

“Orville Thomas. He’s got a nose for liquor and the best still in these parts,” Clint supplied. “But he won’t sell to outsiders; if you go looking, you won’t find him.”

“Well, then, I’ll just have to buy it through you, won’t I? I bet Phil over there will be more than happy for a steady revenue stream and he knows how much I drink, don’t you, Phil? Hey, is it Lord Barton and Lord Barton? or Lord Barton-Coulson? Always wondered how people handled that.”  Stark snagged a cream pastry and took a bite.

“Phil’s fine,” Philip replied. Stark’s eyes went comically wide and he paused, powdered sugar on his lips.

“Excuse me? What happened to Thane Philip Coulson, Lord Fury’s heir? The guy with the stick up his ass? Am I in the wrong place?” He waved his hands and powder sprinkled down on the table. “What got you to unbend? I thought the world would stop revolving before we were on a first name basis.”

“I believe that was me,” Clint said. “I’ve been teaching Phil all kinds of ways to loosen up.”

Stark stopped short then threw his head back and laughed so loud it bounced off the ceilings. “Oh, gods, but I needed that,” he said as he regained his breath. “Phil! Where did you find this guy? If you weren’t already married to him, I’d snatch him up.”

“I’ll kill you if you so much as look at him wrong,” Philip warned, a crackle of energy running up his arms.

“Oh. I see how it is. Well, congratulations are in order then.” Stark eyed the purple electricity that wreathed Phil’s hands. “Magic. I’m getting kind of tired of seeing magic everywhere lately. Falls into the be careful what you wish for category.” Virginia cleared her throat; Stark glanced over at her. “Yes, yes, I’m getting there. First, introductions all around and then I’ve got a story to tell you that you won’t … well, you probably will believe it. Sorcerers, disappearing knights, frozen soldiers, Asgardians, a flying suit, and a dose of ghosts for another turn of the screw.”

Clint didn’t even have to nod at Annamarie before she was gone to get food for the visitors. This was going to be a long meeting.

* * *

“Much as I appreciate the company, I get the feeling you’re avoiding those two boys in there.” Robert Singer shifted a stack of books to the floor and eyed Natasha across the big desk. “And something tells me that running away isn’t your usual way of handling things.”

She froze; off her game, Natasha had been walking on eggshells all evening as they continued researching what could be waiting for them at the cairns and how to get there safely. Leaving James and Steven alone upstairs didn’t mean she’d left them to their own devices; she’d felt the backwash of their climaxes and her body had reacted, tingles of heat between her legs and sensitive nipples rubbing against fabric. She’d managed to keep herself separated as they ate, letting the awkwardness of James’ appearance cover her own unease.

“Now, you probably don’t want any advice, least of all from an old coot like me, but there’s benefits with getting old and one is being able to say whatever the hell I want.” Singer rested his elbows on the desk and leaned forward. “I don’t know how I feel about Barnes … man got past my best defenses … but Steven Rogers is a damn good man and if the stories are even thirty percent right, the two of them are worth taking any risk for. So why are you sitting here with me instead of rounding them up and making an evening of it?”

“You’re not that old, Bobby,” she replied. Flirting came easily when she needed to hide her reactions. “And you know a lady never kisses and tells.”

“Unhuh, I see.” He arched an eyebrow at her . “Keep hiding if you want. But I can tell you, if I had the chance, I’d grab it with both hands and hang on.”

The pain lanced through her head, razor sharp that brought tears to her eyes. She gasped, doubling over; from the corner of she saw Steve grab his head. It came in waves, battering against the walls of her mind.

“No.” James groaned, flailing back and knocking over a stack of books as his hand looked for a hold. “No, no, no. I’ve got to get out of here before I …” He closed his eyes and his whole body shook as he fought the magic that was bombarding him.

“Kevin! Get Kat and get out of here,” Singer called, coming around the desk and throwing open one of the cabinets to rummage inside. “It’s in here somewhere.”

“Bucky.” Steven winced as he moved but he reached for James, catching his wrist and reeling them together. “What is it?”

“Get away from me.” Shoving Steven back, James darted for the front hallway, weaving among the furniture and bookcases. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

He shuddered, nearly falling, his hand wrapping around the banister to stay upright. At his side in two strides, Steven caught at James only to get an elbow in the face as James spun around, whipping Steven’s knife from his belt and brandishing it. Natasha could see the life drain out of James’ eyes, a cold mask of indifference replacing it.

“It’s me, Bucky. You know me.” Steven took a  step back, holding his arms out and his palms up. “I’m not your enemy.”

A lunge forward and the sharp metal slashed at Steven’s chest; he danced back just seconds before it would have plunged in, blocking the next blow with his forearm. Like a deadly dance, the two men went after each other, trading blows, James aiming to kill and Steven trying to immobilize.

The book was in her hand before she even thought about it. Head clear now that James wasn’t fighting the mental control anymore, she balanced it in her hand and, as soon as the opportunity presented itself, hurled it across the hallway, hitting James’ arm and knocking the knife to the ground. Steven took the opening and twisted James’ arm behind his back, trying to pin him down.

“Hey!” Singer called as he threw what was in his hand; a flash of metal flew by Natasha and James caught it before it hit him, a sneer on his face at the weak attempt. “Someone’s going to have to catch him,” Singer said.

James looked at the spoon in his hand, blinked in confusion, then collapsed towards the floor, eyes rolling back into his head. Steven’s arms broke the fall and eased him to the ground.

“Morpheus’ teaspoon. Got a sleeping spell on it.” Singer shrugged. “Be careful and don’t touch it with bare skin or you’ll end up snoozing it off yourself. Let’s get him down to the workshop room before he comes out of it. I don’t know how powerful the spell is that’s holding him.”

“There’s something on his arm.” Steven turned James’ wrist over and pulled up his sleeve. A mark like a brand glowed red under the skin, a curved red and black worm, open mouth consuming its own tail. Even as they looked, it began to fade, a ring of letters left behind to glimmer for a few seconds longer before they too were gone.

“A chaining sigil,” Singer murmured. “That’s as dark a magic as you can get. Necromancers use it to animate bodies. Nasty stuff, forcing people’s souls out or keeping them from moving on.”

Natasha clenched her fingers tight, her nails cutting into her palms; she could feel Steven’s frustration and fear washing through the half-formed bond. He understood the implications of what Singer was saying.

“You’re saying that’s what’s keeping him alive?” Steven’s voice was raw with anger. “But it’s also what’s taking away his will?”

“Could be. There’s lots of different sigils. We have to find this exact one and see what it does. But, yes, that’s a possibility.”

“I think I can help with that.” Sam was rummaging through the books they’d discarded as not being useful earlier. “Seems I remember a whole page of tattoos like that; somewhere in the middle of all the talk about stonemasonry and windows …” He found the one he was looking for and ruffled through the pages. “Here. Any of these the same?”

Bucky stirred, jerking his hands open and moving his head. “Downstairs?” Steven asked as he scooped up the other man and stood.

“I’ll show you,” Singer said, leading the way, leaving Natasha to look over Sam’s shoulder. Halfway down the third page she saw it and tapped her finger on it, holding the paper down as she read the spindly words beneath it.

_“Would they might give us our good gift, that should be youth for ever, and war; and unwaning strength and skill in arms. Would they might but give us our great enemies alive and whole again. For better it were we should run hazard again of utter destruction, than thus live out our lives like cattle fattening for the slaughter, or like silly garden plants.”_

Handwritten in the margin was a list of three details: perversion of a holy bond, unnatural life span, and imposition of maker’s will.

“Any reason these people cannot write in simple terms? Why does everything have to be riddles and poetry?” Sam complained

“It’s clear enough. The mark is keeping him alive and giving him strength and fighting abilities. But it also allows the sorcerer to control him. The part about the bond is the most interesting; I wonder …” Natasha followed that thought to its logical end. “It’s a risk, but it might work.”

“Wait, what did I miss?” Sam complained. “Did we read the same thing?”

Natasha smiled at him; as she walked towards the stairs, her foot kicked the book she’d thrown earlier, it’s spine down and pages waving open. Stooping to pick it up, she glanced down at the carefully drawn letters.

_I sing the body electric,_

_The armies of those I love encompass me and I encompass them,_

_They will not let me off until I go with them, respond to them,_

_And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul._

The words leaped from the vellum into her head, a charge of power rolling through her; she fumbled the book, almost dropping it. The cover felt warm as she clasped her fingers around it.

“Are you okay?” Sam asked.

“I’m fine. I think I know what we need to do. Let’s get downstairs.”

* * *

“So, wait. You jumped off a mountain in a suit of armor, hoping you would fly?” Dean Winchester sat his mug of ale down on the table and grabbed the handle of the pitcher to fill it up again. “And it never occurred to you that armor equals weight equals plummeting to your death?”

“First off, I didn’t jump off. It was more of a stumble after valiantly defending myself from a multitude of assailants.” Anthony waved his glass Dean’s direction; the Winchester poured more of the frothy liquid until the white foam came to the top. “Second, I understand mass and force. Thus the thrust in the gloves and the foot guards.”

“Multitude, my ass,” Dean replied, kicking back on the bench and leaning against the wall. “I believe about half that story.”

“Oh, right. And I’m just supposed to accept that tale about a possessed wagon that was running over people? You’re just as full of shit as I am,” Anthony shot back with a wide smile. “Anyone who can tell a fish story like that with a straight face deserves another drink.”

“Hey, that really happened!” Dean protested.

“Nay, but I can tell one better than that,” Thor interjected. “Do you know about the frost giants in the far North? Well one time, after much feasting and drinking, I decided to see if the legends were true about the size of their women …”

Clint leaned into Phil’s shoulder; he’d tried matching the others drink for drink, but he had to give up half an hour ago or he’d be passed out on the table. Thor seemed to have limitless ability to consume alcohol; the more he drank the more expansive and handsome he became. Anthony Stark was right behind Thor, downing mug after mug and telling stories the grew more outrageous as others joined in. Dean seemed none the worse for wear, although he was slurring his words a little as he tried to break into Thor’s recitation to ask questions about what frost giants wore. And Carol was right in there with them, keeping pace and tossing out her own ribald tidbits that made the others roar.

“Falling asleep on me?” Phil murmured into Clint’s ear. He’d foregone the ale long enough ago that he was the soberest person at the table.

“I suppose we’re getting nothing else done tonight,” Clint replied, a yawn breaking through. “You’re comfortable; think anyone would notice if I just dozed off right here?”

“Go to bed. I’ll see them all off.” Phil nudged his shoulder and Clint huffed in complaint.

“And miss the frost giants?” Clint laughed. “Plus, Carol hasn’t told her pirate story yet; Jessica isn’t here, so she’s safe to bring it up. It’s a winner.”

Bruce and Darcy had already called it a night; Jessica had left to take her shift as guard captain while Carol had some time off. Sam Winchester had gone with her to keep her company during rounds, at least that’s what he said. Virginia Potts had immediately retired after supper, Jane Foster not far behind.

“The pirate king story?” Warm lips brushed against Clint’s forehead as Phil kissed him lightly. “I do like that one.”

“This is a different one. Same pirate though, but later. Involves some bad guys intent on pillaging a town, a couple bolts of expensive fabric, a cargo hold full of rum, a brothel, and a trapeze.” Clint really could just close his eyes and drift right off. Maybe he should go on to bed; Phil was here. He’d take care of everything.

“Oh, well then, I’ll have to stay to hear that one.” Phil gently pushed Clint up. “Off you go. I don’t want drool on my vest.”

“You could come with me.” Clint wiggled his eyebrows; Phil rolled his eyes. “Fine. Be that way.” He managed to stand up with a liberal amount of help from Phil.

“Admitting defeat?” Carol asked.

“I am leading by example,” he replied. “Besides, Phil’s already heard my tall tales; enjoy yourselves.”

“And the first has fallen!” Anthony crowed.

“Clint is a good host,” Thor exclaimed. “His ale and cider are excellent as is his table.”

“Damn good pies,” Dean agreed.

“You’re excused.” Carol thumped his shoulder, almost knocking him over. “Go on. I’ve got this.”

“So, the Warriors Three were cornered and you were trapped in the Queen’s bedroom …” Dean encouraged Thor to continue his story.

Walking carefully, Clint went into the main hall to take the stairway; aside from a few glowing tapers, the area deserted at this time of night. The voices receded behind him after a burst of loud laughter. Taking the stairs one-at-a-time, his mind wandered to tomorrow and the things he had to accomplish (find a way to protect them once they left the manor) then on to his impressions of Anthony Stark (loud to hide the soft bits). He was in the middle of wondering if he could stay awake long enough to wait on Phil when he saw her, standing at the top of the landing in her favorite grey day dress.

She was so young. That was the first thing that Clint noticed. Blonde hair pulled back simply at the nap of her long neck. Blue grey eyes that shone with compassion and love as she looked at him.

“Clinton.” Quiet voice, so familiar and yet achingly distance in his memory. It had been too long; Clint had started to forget. “My darling boy.”

“Mother.” He stopped two steps away, fearful of getting closer. “I wondered if I’d see you first.”

It didn’t make sense; the house had been warded and yet here she was, looking for the world as if Clint need only reach out his hand to touch her. No signs of the blackness yet; she appeared to be just what she was -- the ghost of Edith Barton.

“How could I not come to you?” She tilted her head and Clint’s heart twisted at her fond smile. “You were always so much like a Frasier, so headstrong and capable. Heart so easily broken.”

“You’re a ghost; you’re not real.” If he repeated it, maybe he’d believe it. “Something has stirred you up.”

“Yes.” A flicker of black in her eyes disappeared quickly. “It is … calling us. The stronger the bond, the more powerful we are. That’s why I’m here, to warn you. To do what I couldn’t in life: to protect you.”

“Mom.” His voice skittered over the roughness of gathering tears. “You did what you could. I know that. I don’t blame you.”

“I should have stopped him, stood up to him. I pretended not to see, too ashamed of the man I’d married, too worried others would know.” A stray drop ran from the corner of her eye. “He’s coming, Clint, and he’s angry. He wants to …”

“You talking out of turn, woman?” The sound was like a sword to the gut; Harold Barton’s guttural tones sawed into Clint’s chest and released the old nightmares he’d packed away. “What have I told you about getting in my way?”

“No, Harold. I won’t’ let you.” Edith moved between the ghost of her husband and her living son. “You can’t hurt me anymore.”

“Silly as always. I can do so much more than hurt.” A beefy man, Harold loomed over Edith, using his size to intimidate. A charge of magic gathered in his hands as he clenched his fists. “Can’t you feel it? The power he offers? I’m going to settle a few scores, remind them who’s in charge here.”

Clint glanced at the lit sconce on the wall; solid wrought iron, heavy and smooth was in his hand as he drew it out. “Leave her alone.”

“Oh, look. The pup speaks. Think you’re big man of the manor now, do you? Well, I’ll show you what’s what.”  Harold swung his fist, Clint dodged and lunged up the steps. Edith jumped between them and was caught by both, Clint’s iron blowing her apart as Harold’s black energy crackled through her body.

“Mom!” Clint cried; smoking spots splattered his clothes, burning their way through to skin.

“You’re next, boy. Let’s see if you make as nice a thud as your mother did.” Harold laughed and advanced. Clint twisted but his foot hit nothing but air as he was forced back; a big hand caught his bicep, black energy oozing up to his shoulder, a wave of sharp pain. He heard a voice screaming then he falling backwards, eyes locked on his father smiling triumphantly at the top of the stairs.

 


	7. Extinguish My Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha makes up her mind and Clint faces a dangerous foe. Bonding and sex happen. :)

“You want to go ahead with the bonding ritual?” Steven asked, surprise evident on his face. “Because you think that will break the Sorcerer’s hold on Bucky?”

The solution was obvious to Natasha; if the mark on James’ arm was a twisted version of a bond, then reaffirming the bond between James and Steven would supersede it. “The reason the Sorcerer was able to cast the spell in the first place was that you were unconscious beneath the ice. Now that you’re awake, James is starting to remember; the closer he is to you, the more he’s shaking off the geas.”

Steven looked to Singer for a second opinion. “It’s the best option we have. I agree that it can’t hurt; worst that will happen is some shaking walls and magical backlash, but I’ve strengthened the panic room, so we’ll be fine.”

For a long moment, Natasha thought that Steven was going to argue further but James cut in. “Can we have a minute here?” he asked from his seat on the bed. Since the last time Natasha had been down here in Singer’s workshop, the room had been updated with a bed, table, chairs, and food storage along with new sigils and wards on the walls.

“You take your time. I’ve still got a stack of books to go through on the table upstairs. Just let me know.” Singer backed out of the room; Sam nodded to them and followed, closing the door behind him.

“I know this is sudden, but if we can strike a blow at the Sorcerer’s power and free James, I think we have to take the chance,” Natasha argued.

“We agree on that point,” Steven said. “That’s not the problem. You do know what happens during a bonding ceremony? Are you ready for that?”

Her throat went dry at the thought; she wasn’t, not really, but then she wasn’t sure she’d ever truly be ready. “I was a witness to both Phil and Clint as well as Darcy and Bruce. I know exactly what goes on. Sex is sex, Steven. It’s not like we aren’t going to get there soon enough anyway.”

“And that’s exactly why I don’t want to force this on you. You can’t bluff your way through this, Natasha. There are no masks, no place to hide when the bond kicks in. I want to take this slow, show you that you can trust me, let you decide to let me in.”

“That’s sweet. Honestly. But it’s not going to happen. I already trust you to guard my back and I let you brush my hair; that’s as intimate as it gets for me. Sex is … well, let’s just say I have a realistic view of it. None of that romantic nonsense about breathless climaxes and headlong rushes to mutual pleasure.” She scoffed at the notion; bodies were bodies and when they came together it was awkward, messy and nothing-at-all for poets to write songs about.

“Nat …” Steve started, but James spoke over him.

“How old were you? The first time you used sex as a bargaining chip?” James’ voice was soft, nothing like the growl of the merciless soldier, more the murmur of a caring lover.

He understood. Natasha breathed a sigh of relief. “Thirteen. He was the captain of the night watch and he talked in his sleep, giving up all kinds of secrets. All told, he was actually a considerate lover; some of the others had it much worse.”

“I was fifteen. I traded blow jobs for oranges; scurvy was a real danger in the slums.” James stood and walked over to Natasha. “My mother never asked where the fruit came from. Or the loaves of bread and Michaelmas candy.”

Steven sighed and wrapped an arm around James’ waist, tucking his head into the crook of James’ neck. A wave of jealousy overwhelmed Natasha at the acceptance she saw in Steven’s blue eyes. “The oranges were for me,” he told her. “I was always sick. Bucky took care of me.”

“Point is,” James said, offering his hand to Natasha and making a place for her on his other side, “we’ll take whatever you want to give us and be content with that. Took me a long time to realize that this big lug really meant it when he said for better or worse.”

It wasn’t that simple, she knew. Once they saw everything, all that she’d done … by then it would be too late. But, oh, she wanted to fit herself into that embrace, to fold into their arms and find a place she belonged.  So she hesitated, nibbling on her lower lip as she tried to decide. Neither man said anything, just waited for her to make up her mind, giving her control of the situation. That, in the end, was what tipped the balance. She could go forward and take this new road, become someone different, or she could stay where she was, mired in the baggage of her past. To take the chance and possibly fail, or stay safe and miss out.

James’ hand was warm, his fingers calloused, palm rough, grip strong. Her shoulder tucked under his and her head rested perfectly against his chest. Steven’s other arm wound around her and they were a circle, hands lying along leather clad backs. They stayed that way for a span of breaths, and Natasha felt something break inside of her, like ice cracking on the surface of a lake as the thaw came.

“So if we’re going to do this,” James finally said, “we do it right. We’ll need supplies and to find a ritual reading. I’d rather we had a bigger bed, but we can make do.”

“Better than a bivouac pallet.” Steven game him a fond smile. “We always made that work.”

“Oh, I should warn you,” James turned his sparkling eyes on Natasha, “this one is insatiable. Any surface, anywhere. I’m not kidding.”

“You’re confusing me with yourself again,” Steven joked, disengaging himself and heading to the door. “I’ll be right back. Don’t believe anything he tells you while I’m gone.”

When Natasha tried to pull away, James held her tight. “Listen, Steve may believe in rainbows and happy endings, but he’s the most realistic person I know. Whatever you’re worried about, the best path is to tell him. He won’t run away, I can promise that.”

She arched her eyebrows and stared up at him. “I think you’re the one who needs to hear that bit of truth. You think he’d ever walk away from the love of his life? Nothing you’ve done will make him leave you. I’ve watched him these last few months; you are the center of his world, no matter what’s happened.”

“You’re half-right,” James said. “It’s not just me anymore; we are his center. Scary as hell, if you ask me. Always has been.”

Wasn’t that it in its entirety? Who would ever want to build their life around Natasha Romanov?

“But,” James continued, “Steve is worth it. Every bit of fear and anxiety. You can trust me on that.”

“And you? Aren’t you worth something too?” she asked.

“You and me, we’re the same, my little Natalia. We do the things Steve can’t, get our hands dirty. We’ll be partners in crime and Steve will be our compass so we never lose our way in the dark.”

Steven found them still in each other’s arms when he returned, Natasha’s face buried in James’ vest. He’d brought two baskets and he closed the door and locked it behind him, spinning the wheel to throw the bolt. Sitting the basket on the table, he came up behind Natasha and wrapped his arms around the two of them. Dipping his head, he kissed Natasha lightly on the cheek then James on the mouth.

“Are we ready?” he asked.

“I have some text we should look at …” Natasha stopped when James tilted her head up, his fingers under her chin, and swiped a kiss along her lips.

“Later. First, this,” Steve said in her ear. “The ritual is fast and frenetic; the first time you invite us in needs to be all about you.”

“Wait, you want …” her words were swallowed by James’ mouth; pressed between their two bodies, she should have felt trapped but instead she shivered, secure and safe in their arms.

James kissed like a drowning man, tilting his head sideways as he parted her lips and slipped his tongue inside. He drank from her, tasted her, filling his mouth with her. There was nothing soft about him, not his chapped lips or his hands that tightened on her hips as he lined them up. All her artifice, years of practice of maintaining a distance, leaked away; the walls she put up trembled and threatened to fall. She might have kept them in place had Steven not been behind, her body flush against his, snug enough to feel every angle of muscle and the growing length of his cock. His fingers brushed her hair away and bared the line of her neck for his mouth to suck tiny bites of skin. From beneath her ear down to her collarbone, he left a trail of marks, each one a little spark of heat. His hands spanned her rib cage, just below her breasts; she could barely register all the different sensations.

Then Steven’s fingers turned her face his way. Steven’s kisses were like floating, buoyed up by his current of strength, slow, easy ride into arousal. He gave, his energy flowing into her; his lips were warm, silky slides across hers, his fingers a bare brush along her jaw, his arm a support around her waist. James had been an assault; Steven was surrender, a complete and utter giving away of all that she had. No walls could stand before the two of them; she moaned into the moistness of Steven’s mouth, bowing her back, fitting her hips into James’, drawing him into the water with them.

When Steven pulled away, she dropped her head onto his shoulder and watched the two men’s lips come together. Winding a hand into James’ hair, wrapping the other behind her and around Steven, she could feel their magic stirring in the room. Pages of books flipped open and the candles guttered as they turned to her, matching smiles on their faces.

“Shall we?” Steven asked.

“Oh, ho, are you playing the gentleman?” James laughed; Natasha could feel the rumble in his chest. “He’ll play nice, but he’s a kinky fucker when he gets down to it.”

“That’s you, Buck,” Steven answered with a laugh of his own. Natasha had never seen his face look so relaxed, free from strain. “Do you want me to bring up that club in …”

“Yeah, yeah, one time, Steveo. One time and you won’t let me forget it.” James winked at her. “He really liked it, by the way. Awkward, messy and pretty embarrassing, but damn fun.”

“Fun?” Natasha had never thought of sex as fun. Enjoyable, maybe. Relaxing, yes. Necessary, most of the time. But not fun; there was no laughing during sex in her experience.

“Bucky here is the master of bad sexual puns. He thinks laughter is the best orgasm.” Steven nudged James who backed a step or two away.

“That’s me,” he said as a shadow crossed behind his eyes. “At least as long as I stay in the room.”

“Buck. We’ll figure this out,” Steven said.

Natasha didn’t use words; she put her hands on James’s chest, pushing him until his knees hit the edge of the bed. Then she closed the distance and surged up to kiss him, knocking him off balance so he landed on his ass on the mattress. Straddling his legs, she bent him back as she took his arm, the one with the sigil, and brought it up to her mouth, kissing it and sucking on the skin. He gasped; as she lifted her head, she could see the sigil flicker and fade beneath the reddening mark she’d left.

“I’m a stubborn woman, James Buchanan Barnes. If I want something, I get it. And heaven forbid anyone who gets in my way.” She unbuckled his belt, pulling it away and tossing it on the floor. “Sorcerer or not, he has to come through me to get you; he should be very afraid.”

“She’s right,” Steven added. “The three of us, together, can do this.”

She could tell that James wasn’t convinced, but Steven took control, peeled off her vest and then her shirt; her breasts bobbed free and she tamped down the urge to cover herself. Too many times she’d been told how lucky she was to have such small breasts, almost as many times as she’d seen the pitying looks of larger women. Rarely was she this self-conscious but James and Steven’s reactions mattered to her.

A slow smile spread across James’ face as he looked his fill; with her straddling his legs, he barely had to bend his head to drop a light kiss on her left nipple. “Perfect,” he murmured. “Absolutely perfect.”

Her huff made Steve chuckle. “I doubt that unless you think scars are artwork.”

“They can be,” Steven said. His hands settled on her shoulders and traced the line of her spine. He found a knife wound that healed badly, a puckered bit of skin, and ran his thumb over it. “None of us are without our blemishes.”

She expected them to go straight to fondling her breasts; that was, after all, what men did. A little kissing, a bit of pawing, some sloppy sucking on her nipples, if she was lucky, a lick or two between her legs, and then right to the main attraction. A few gasps and groans and it was over with little more than an absent throb. She didn’t see how adding another was going to change that very much.

Instead, James turned her so her ass settled into his lap. Steven unlaced her boots then untied her pants, rolling them over her hips and down her legs. Goosebumps rose on her skin as she was revealed completely to them. It was awkward; they were both fully dressed and she was on display.

“No way I’m going to be the only naked one,” she complained, itching to feel skin beneath her fingers. She stood and pushed Steven back a step. Slowly, she began to undress him, taking her time with each piece, dragging her fingers across skin as she removed his clothes. His little half-smile encouraged her; kneeling down, she worked his boots free, holding them as he stepped out.  Her face was at crotch level as she undid the laces on Steven’s pants and pulled them down. As Steven’s cock sprang free, Natasha heard a groan from James; sprawled on the bed, he was rubbing his own bulge as he watched with greedy eyes.

“He likes to watch me touch myself,” Steven told her.

“I can see why.” Thick and long, Steven’s cock was impressive and he was only half-aroused. Just the thought of that girth filling her sent tingles up her spine. Maybe size would make a difference; maybe this time she’d get to feel her own completion.

She had to touch him, running the tip of her pointer finger from slit to balls; he jerked, growing even more flushed. Then she wanted a taste; she followed the same path with her tongue, circling and coming back out. This she was good at; she knew just how much pressure to use, how to hit the most sensitive spots as she swirled and licked. Thanks to her training, she could take almost all of him in her mouth, parting her lips and sliding along the shaft.

What surprised her wasn’t Steven’s moans or the way his hands threaded through her hair as she sucked him. It was her own response; the tingles turned to throbbing, a pulse between the folds of her flesh and in her breasts. The fact that it was Steven’s cock in her mouth mattered. That James was watching, his harsh breaths loud in the room.  She wanted them, she realized; her body was doing things she’d never felt before.

“Okay.” Steven tugged her off and scooped her up to stand next to him. His voice was shaky as he spoke. “Buck’s feeling left out over there. Let’s see what we can do about that.”

“Oh, fuck me,” James said. At some point, he’d freed himself so he could stroke the hot flesh freely. “I don’t think I’m going to survive this.”

With a shared look, they descended upon him, Natasha taking his vest and shirt and Steven working on his boots and pants. Very quickly, she discovered he was ticklish and ruthlessly used that to her advantage, pushing him down on his back as Steven held his legs. His giggles were contagious; she laughed as he caught her hands and flipped her onto her back beside him. Steven switched sides, the bastard, and next thing she knew she was in James’ lap again, his cock sliding along the curve of her ass and his arms around her waist. Squirming didn’t free her, not that she wanted to get away; the throb pounded in time to her heart beating harder in her chest.

“I’ll start at the neck,” James said.

“Toes,” Steven nodded in agreement.

“What are you talking about,” Natasha had no clue what they meant. They weren’t following the agenda she expected.

“Finding the places that make you jump,” James explained. He turned her chin away and nibbled on her earlobe. “It’s called foreplay.”

“I know what that …” she jumped as Steven ran his thumb along the bottom of her foot, putting enough pressure to get a sigh out of her.

“Did you know there are places on the foot that connect to other parts of the body?” He pressed below the head of her big toe. “Neck.” James ran his tongue down the line of muscle from her ear to her collarbone, leaving a trail of heat. Steven picked a spot on the ball of her foot and rubbed a circle. “Heart.” James sucked in a divot of flesh and nipped a bruise into her skin; the thumping of her heart slowed as a wave of relaxation flowed through her. Tension released and it felt like floating on top of the water, her arousal just beneath the surface, a tidal pull. Then Steven moved to her heel and dug a knuckle in. “Clitoris.”

“Oh, oh, oh.” Her pulse centered between her legs and surged, hot and insistent. Wiggling her toes, she arched her back at the incredible rush.

“Let’s see,” James murmured in her ear. “How about …” He caught her wrist and brought it to his mouth, licking a stripe across the soft underside. Now the swell trailed up her arm and flooded her breasts; her nipples hardened and ached without even being touched.

“Or this.” Steven nuzzled behind her knee; she squirmed but only because his scruff tickled. “Okay, that didn’t work. Moving on.”

James spread his hand on Natasha’s stomach, his arms tight along her side as Steven moved higher, kneeling between both of their spread legs. With a wicked gleam in his eye, he dipped his head and dragged his jaw along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Her body lit up like every part was connected -- her throbbing clit sent sparks directly to her nipples and down to her toes which curled as she instinctively jerked. She would have bucked off of James if he hadn’t been holding her.

“I don’t …” she couldn’t form words as the rising tide threatened to engulf her. “I’ve never …”

“You’re safe. We’ve got you. Let it happen,” James whispered in her ear. “Just wait. Steven can work magic with his tongue. He’s going to have you over the edge in no time at all.”

“You’re not bad yourself there, Bucky,” Steven said, raising his head and slotting his hands into the joint of Natasha’s hips, his fingers curling over the curve of bone.

“I can’t wait to see that.” Natasha could picture it in her head, the two handsome men together and another burst of arousal strummed through the tension in her body. It was like straining her muscles to reach further than before, pushing herself until they quivered with exhaustion.

“Now that’s an interesting idea.” Steven grinned. “Let’s see if it works.”

He pushed her up, skin sliding over skin, until her head leaned back on James’ shoulder and her hips were slightly above his. The change in position freed James’s cock and it fell across Natasha’s thigh, pearly drops leaking onto her. Steven lifted her legs and linked them around his neck before he lay down, propping up on his elbows, his mouth close enough that Natasha could feel his breath across her heated flesh.

“Son of a bitch,” James muttered in a fond voice. “Always have to show off, don’t you? Hold on, Nat. We’re in for a ride.”

Steven licked up James’ cock, his scruff tickling Natasha at the same time. Again and again, he teased them both before he took the tip in his mouth and sucked lightly. One hand held onto James, the other on the outside of Natasha’s thigh and then he began to slide down the length, pressing Natasha’s thighs so he scraped along them as he went.

Her body couldn’t decide if it wanted to pull away from the building tension, to clench her muscles around Steve’s head and hold him there forever, or just give in to the current that was carrying her somewhere new. James was vibrating beneath her, moaning with pleasure; his hands cupped her breasts, palms covering the aching nipples and rubbing them in circles. She almost had a handle on it, could bring herself back under control, but then Steven’s thumb parted her folds and found the hard nub at her center and she was lost.

“Not quite,” James said, giving Steven directions. “Keep moving. Maybe … no … there.”

She’d always thought all those descriptions were hyperbole, just flowery phrases to describe a simple physical act. There was no blacking out or losing senses or involuntary cries, just a pleasurable release, like stretching a sore muscle. But she’d been wrong, or she’d been sleeping with the wrong men. As Steven bore down on a spot on the bottom of her clit and rubbed his scruff along her thigh, as James pinched her nipples and bit her earlobe, she came unmoored and was taken by a strong riptide that dragged her down through a raging sea. No time to take a breath, she was pulled under and she tried to fight it, the fear of the unknown making her thrash back towards the safety of the surface.

But strong hands refused to let her go, guiding her as they burned into her skin. James took one hand in his and splayed it across her chest, just above her heart. Steven reached up and caught the other, his mouth moving from James to her, his tongue taking the place of his thumb, both tormenting and pleasuring her. Like a lifeline, there was almost an audible click when James and Steven’s fingers touched, James reaching down to help hold Natasha open for Steven’s mouth.

She let go and was yanked beneath the waves. Her chest filled with their scents and her own as she neared the bottom. She breathed in James and exhaled Steven; she didn’t need air. They were enough. Arching her back, she cried out inarticulate words as she shattered into a million pieces, all of them settling into the peaceful calm of her depths.

“That’s my girl.” James was kissing her, but she was only half aware, unable to tell where she stopped and the others started.

Then Steven was kissing her, both of them together and hands were all over, holding, moving, lifting; Steven breached her, stretching her with his big cock and she was on her knees, sliding down into his lap, James behind her, bracketing her between them. This she knew; she reeled herself back into her own body and did a slow figure eight with her hips, inching down even further on Steven, enjoying the way his eyes rolled back in his head and his teeth gripped his lower lip. An echo of his pleasure floated through her, another of James’ aching need. She lifted up and sank back down, amazed by the ripples the action sent through all of them.

“Natasha.” Steven’s eyes were so blue, like the Outer Isle ocean, so clear she could see right to the bottom. “I can go slow. We’ll take this nice and easy.”

She tossed her hair and laughed at him, some other person waking in her, a woman who knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid. “I think I’m the one setting the pace here, Rogers. And I want fast and hard.”

He searched her face for a moment before a slow sensual smile spread across his own. “Yes, ma’am. Whatever you say.”

It was push and pull, lift and retreat then, Natasha riding him with quick strokes and Steven thrusting his hips up to meet her. Her breasts skittered across his sweaty chest and James’s hands helped guide her when her muscles began to strain. The riptide swept her up again as they increased speed but before she was fully in the current, Steven groaned and thrust two more times, his eyes squeezing shut as he came.

Falling onto his back, he took her down with him, stretching out across the small bed, his head hitting the iron rail at the foot. Even before he slipped out of her, James’ hands were lifting her onto her knees, his hand pressing her shoulders down so she lay in Steven’s embrace and then he was filling her from behind, picking up right where Steven left off.  She went under a second time, spiraling into her orgasm like a ship caught in a whirlpool, whirling faster and faster with each ragged thrust. Steven’s hands were warm on her back, her hand wound in his hair, James’s on her hips. Her breasts were flattened between Steven’s chest and it she was sure she was going to fly apart any second if only …

Two hands, one from each of them, parted her and rubbed her clit, calloused fingertips bumping and pressing together. White rose behind her eyes as she came, muscles spasming around James, pulling him in tight, her fingers clenching in strands of blonde hair.

When she floated back to consciousness, she was sandwiched between two bodies, three of them on a cot made for one. Her cheek rested on a smooth pectoral, her ass snug against hip bones. two sets of arms criss-crossed over and under her. Six legs were tangled together; she wasn’t sure whose was whose and she didn’t really care. It had been a long time since she’d been this comfortable and she was beginning to believe that new feeling was being sated.

“If you’re sure you want to do this, I’m in,” James said

Natasha turned her head to look at him. “Well, you’re easy.”

Steven laughed. “Oh, you have no idea. So I guess we have to find a ritual reading.”

Books had toppled from shelves, baskets turned over; the room was a mess. But lying open by her foot was the book she’d brought down with her, the words bold black on the page.

“I think I have the perfect verse,” she said.

* * *

“I’ve never seen anything like this before.” Bruce studied the blackened skin on Clint’s arm, the tendrils that ran down to his hand and up towards his shoulder. Like a dark bruise just under the skin, veined with purple and red, it writhed and moved as if alive.

Clint’s skin was burning hot beneath Philip’s spread palm. Wherever Philip touched, the black receded, curling out of the range of his touch. “I saw the ghost touch him; somehow it infected him.”

It had been Dean Winchester whose head snapped around before anyone else was aware of what was happening. He’d jumped up from the bench and ran to the main stairs, everyone else following behind. Adrenaline pushed the alcohol back and Philip had arrived just in time to see Clint tilting backwards, his arms flailing seconds before he plummeted downward. Carol caught him, not on the ground, but flew up and cradled him in her arms as she lowered back down. The man on the top of the stairs captured Philip’s attention, malevolent stare of hatred focused on him, dark eyes burning into Philip’s mind. Anthony barreled into him, breaking the connection, and when Philip looked back, the ghost was gone.

“It’s not a spell. This place is warded well; no magic should be getting through. So how did this ghost get in?” Dean was in the corner talking to his brother Samuel, both hunters stymied by their lack of knowledge. “Sure, ghosts can take over human bodies, but I’ve never seen a ghost leave black residue inside someone before.”

“Maybe we’re going about this all wrong,” Samuel said. “We’re assuming that this is about the ghosts. What if they’re just the conduits for something else?”

“They’re its hands, eyes, legs … yeah, what was that thing down in Orlavanah? The box that held a cursed spirit? Maybe people for miles go crazy.” Dean nodded as he spoke. “Something without form that’s using ghosts. The black stuff is it’s residue. That would explain why sweet little old ladies are angry and pissed off; who’d want to be called out of their rest by something dark and terrifying?”

“A delivery system, like a rat bringing the fleas that have disease.” Bruce thought about it. “So the normal spells for ghostly possession won’t work. But wouldn’t the wards work against it? Keep it from getting the ghosts in the manor?”

“Probably makes it harder, so it would choose more powerful ghosts, those already likely to be haunts and spectres. It started with easier spirits, timid ones who wouldn’t fight back; now it’s moving on to the ones who would do the most damage,” Samuel theorized.

“Like Harold Barton.” Philip couldn’t shake the image of those burning eyes. The ghost  had been filled with evil intentions. “From what I’ve heard about him, Clint’s father would make a deal with the devil if it suited him.”

“So what is this thing? And how do we cure Clint?” Bruce asked.

“Not a demon, that’s for sure. Seen enough of those to know,” Dean replied. “If it’s an evil spirit trying to take control, we’ve got some spells for that.”

“And a couple potions,” Samuel added. “I’ll get the books from the bag. Oh, and the bond will help; that’s probably why it’s avoiding your touch. You’ve got a claim to him already. Maybe restaking that claim somehow? Using your magic to make the bond stronger?”

The brothers left to dig into their texts for answers. Philip turned his attention back to his husband; Clint’s shivers grew into tremors, his muscles tensing in fast pulses. His eyes flew open and garbled words left his mouth, a low and rapid patter. Just a few made any sense: no, father, Phil, stop.

“I’m going to ask Darcy,” Bruce said, rising. “I can’t do anything for him here. She might know the right words to channel your power into the bond.”

“Should we move him to the workshop? At least there are protections there in case my magic goes awry.” Philip worried about the rest of the manor and the people in town; their bonding ceremony had been fairly explosive as it was and it had been constrained by a stone circle.

“We don’t know whether the wards are helping. If you take him out of the house, it could make the connection stronger. We can do damage control here.” Bruce headed to the door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

As soon as they were alone, Philip yanked his shirt off, managing without losing contact, and stretched out across Clint, skin against skin, weighing him down. Clint settled, the infection trapped in his arm with no way to get past Philip’s warmth. Still feverish, at least Clint was breathing evenly beneath Philip.

Time passed. Philip felt every second, a slow progression of worry and doubt. He tried opening himself up to Clint, to sink into the bond like they’d done before, but Clint was walled off, unresponsive. Grabbing Clint’s hand, Philip forced the infection back; sliding his hand up Clint’s arm, he made it retreat all the way up to the elbow. But as he tried to go higher, Clint moaned and bucked beneath him, fighting to throw him off. He kept going; Clint cried out in pain and rolled over, pinning Philip beneath him.

Gone were Clint’s normal blue-grey eyes; black filled the whites and irises, dark and terrible. His nose flared and he rose up, his hands curled around Philip’s biceps.

“You think your flimsy bond is match for me?”

The words rasped out of Clint’s throat like they’d scraped across a colander. Heat came off him in waves as the black was free to spread.

“Such petty humans with your plans and weakling magic. Arrogance is such a human trait. Thinking your short lives mean anything when compared to the likes of me.”

Philip’s stomach turned to see the hatred on Clint’s face, the way he scowled down at Philip. “Get out of Clint. You can’t have him.”

“He is yours?” Clint laughed. “And yet I took him so easily. Such a strong body for me to use; he will make a perfect vessel.”

“For what? So you can get out of wherever you’re trapped and roam free again?” Engage it, maybe buy some time for Bruce or the Winchesters to return.

“Indeed. It has been a long, long time since I walked this Earth. It is time for chaos to reign again. First I shall take out the pretender who vexes me and then you will all fall in line. But to do so, I’m afraid I need your power.”

Clint’s hands closed around his throat; magic was yanked out of Philip, like a hand was reaching into his chest and pulling it out from the roots. Pain lanced through him; he tried to scream, his mouth wide open but no sound came out. Arms flailing, he grabbed Clint, one on his arm the other on pressing just above Clint’s heart. Purple sparks gathered on Philip’s skin and rose into the air, a stream crossing the distance to Clint where they swirled around him.

“Clint.” Strangled and distance, Philip managed to get his voice to work. “Clint.”

Fighting only made it worse, a thousand knives lancing into him, filleting him into tiny slivers. Clint was draining him dry; he was turning into a hollow shell, darkness creeping on the edges of his eyes. He gasped in air, but Clint’s fingers only tightened and cut off the flow. As his power left, he realized that it wasn’t just him; energy flowed through the connections from the others. Whatever was inside of Clint drew them in, Bruce and Darcy and Carol and Jessica, every one of the thanes. Philip tried to struggle, but he fell further into the blackness that was gathering.

* * *

“Are we ready?” Steven looked at the two people he cared about, ready to face danger together. Bucky, he’d loved forever, from the time they were boys, running in the streets together. His love for Natasha sprang fully formed, as if he’d simply been waiting all along.

“If this goes wrong …” James started. He’d been coming up with worst case scenarios as they’d prepared.

“I’ll take you down myself,” Natasha promised. Steven winced; he knew Natasha was right, but he always understood he couldn’t do it. If James became a danger to himself …

“It won’t come to that,” Steven said. They both turned, eyebrows raised, same look on their faces. “Don’t give me that. Someone has to be positive.”

“And you’re good at it,” James told him. “Let’s do this. I didn’t get all stretched out to stand around.”

Steven didn’t bother to reply; that’s what James wanted. Still, it was so like the old Bucky that Steven knew he had a goofy grin on his face as they opened the book. They’d portioned out the vows, done as much as they could to contain the magic, but there was no guarantee this would free James from the spell he was under. They were all nervous; Steven felt a prickling, a pull of magic building.

He started, the first to speak his lines:  “ _I sing the body electric. The armies of those I love encompass me and I encompass them, they will not let me off until I go with them, respond to them, discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul.” **[1]**_

* * *

Words flowed into Philip’s mind, wrapped in the essence of Darcy. He opened his mouth and squeezed them out. _“Extinguish my eyes, I'll go on seeing you. Seal my ears, I'll go on hearing you.” **[2]**_

 

The pressure on his throat eased and Philip dragged in a deep breath and spoke the next phrase. “ _And without feet I can make my way to you, without a mouth I can swear your name.”_

 

“I am not to be trifled with. I am ageless; your power is but naught compared to me.” Clint leaned so close Philip could see the tendrils of black working their way into his hair. “A few magical words aren’t enough to bind me.”

 

* * *

The hairs on Natasha’s arms stood on end, charged with the electricity that began to spiral in the room. A shiver ran down her spine, the sense that someone was watching. Pushing it aside, she picked up the refrain: “ _The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body itself balks account, that of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect.”_

 

The temperature dropped, goosebumps rising on her bare skin. Candles flickered as she passed the page to Steve. He took a deep breath before he read the next part.

 

_“This is the female form, a divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot. It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction.”_

* * *

Philip was on the edge of blacking out, the last of his life force dwindling. He needed to fight but he hand no power left; every reserve was gone, depleted by this creature hovering over him. Distantly he could sense the others, the slow draining of their own energy and he was helpless to stop it.

 

“Great power has always baffled primitive men. I will be here long after you are gone to dust. I have outlived them all, those heroes who sought to stand between me and my desires.” The harsh voice followed Philip down. “Even this petty sorcerer who believes he can control me. He will learn.”

 

A burning surge of anger slammed into Philip; it boiled in his chest, giving strength to his body. Strong and clear, Bruce’s power carried Darcy’s words and Carol’s might. Jessica, Thor, Annamarie, Andrew … even the Winchesters and Anthony Stark loaned their gifts to Philip, fighting back against the pull of dark magic.

 

_“Break off my arms, I'll take hold of you with my heart as with a hand.”_

* * *

James was sweating, his body shaking with the effort it took to keep the paper steady. HIs stomach churned, the sigil on his arm burning through his flesh and down to the bone.

 

_“I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor, all falls aside but myself and it.”_

 

Natasha was in front of him and he held on to her to ground himself, to keep from floating away as the winds of magic buffeted him. Hands on her hips, he slid into her with a moan, everything falling away except for the tight warmth that surrounded him.

 

 _“The male is not less the soul nor more, he too is in his place, is all qualities, is action and power. The flush of the known universe is in him,”_ Steven whispered in his ear as he breached James, pushing in until James was filled to overflowing.

 

The whole of the cosmos came down to this, the three of them in perfect unison, joined in mind and body, their spirits merging with each thrust. He tipped his head back as Natasha rose from her place on the table, sitting upright on the edge; Steven behind him, rocking him forward into Natasha. Her legs around both of them, hooked on Steven’s hips. Arms everywhere, hands touching sweaty flesh. The power zinged along the connection, blowing upward and out, back along the ties through Natasha and blasting into a darkness that turned and looked at them.

* * *

“What? No! They’re gone.” Clint sat back, angry running across his face. “This can’t be.”

 

Surging up, Philip knocked Clint off balance, flipping him over and straddling him, holding him down with an arm across his chest and the rest of his body. Natasha, Steven, and James’ bond was a heady brew of magic, trust, friendship, and love.

 

 _“Stop my heart, and my brain will start to beat,”_ Philip said.

 

“No! You can’t do this.” Clint bucked and thrashed, trying to throw Philip off.

“Get the hell out of Clint.” Philip caught the flailing hands and held them down. “He’s ours.”

 

Crashing his lips against Clint’s, Philip poured all the power flowing through him into Clint’s mouth. The darkness tasted like ash and dirt, like moldy bread and brackish water, but ever so faint and distant, a tinny melody was playing. Philip forged ahead, melding with Clint, searching for that sound. He realized he was humming the tune, vibrating against Clint’s lips. Other voices joined in, if only in his head, fleshing out the harmony.  


“Phil?” Clint murmured, his eyes clearing. “Don’t want to hurt …” He gasped and arched up, struggling for breath.

 

“Come back to me,” Philip begged. “We’re all here, Clint.”

* * *

He couldn’t think, his brain on fire with Natasha and Steven, his body burning as the world collapsed only to the three of them and this room. The words had to be choked out of his throat.

 

“ _I dare not desert you for the likes of other men and women.”_

 

There was nothing but Natasha and Steven all around  and inside of him; they pushed everything else out and drove it back, the darkness from the South and the evil from the North. The sigil flared one last time then flickered out, fading from James’ consciousness.  

 

 _“Nor for the likes of the parts of you,”_ Natasha moaned as she came, her muscles contracting around James’ cock. He followed her over the edge with a groan.

 

 _“I believe we are to stand or fall with the likes of our soul.”_ Steven thrust one last time and came, fingers gripping tight into James’ skin.

 

They floated together, the water warm and inviting, calm and deep, safe and united.

* * *

“Damn it!” Philip shouted, holding on desperately to Clint’s thrashing body.

 

“I will have you all!” Clint shouted.

 

“ _If you consume my brain with fire,”_ Philip said, “ _I'll feel you burn in every drop of my blood.”_

 

He let go of Clint’s hands and covered the bonding marks on Clint’s arm and his face instead, magic exploding out of him, wracking Clint’s body. The room spun as books and clothing danced in circles, fire flaming bright, heavy bed shaking. With a scream, the blackness retreated, bursting out of Clint and leaping upwards; caughting in the whirling wind, it splattered harmlessly on the stone wall, sizzling droplets sliding down to the floor.

 

“Oh, gods, Phil.” Clint’s chest was heaving, his skin pink again, bonding marks red. “My father … he pushed my mother down the stairs. He admitted it. Mom … she tried to save me, Phil. She was there and now she’s gone again. I can’t …”

 

Philip gathered Clint in his arms and held him tight, tucking his head into the curve of his shoulder. Long smooth strokes of his hand helped soothe Clint. “I’ve got you. I’m never going to let you go.”

 

“He’s old, Phil. Older than Steven. I could see glimpses of him. Such evil, so much hate. So many dead. I need to tell you before I forget.” Clint was talking in snatches, trembling so hard his teeth were chattering. “He’s underground somewhere, can’t get out. Oh gods.”

 

Bruce knocked lightly before he came carrying a steaming mug and a bowl. Handing the mug over, Bruce mimed drinking.

 

“Clint, I need you to drink this. It will help calm you. Take a sip.” Philip held it while Clint drank; it smelled of cider and mulled spices, an earthy odor that filled the room.

 

“I know valerian root when I smell it,” Clint groused.

 

“You need rest,” Philip didn’t brook any argument. “I’m staying right here with you; you can talk until you fall asleep. Bruce brought some menthol ointment; I’ll give you a massage.”

 

“They could come back. Mother said that the stronger ghosts can cross the wards; the bastard said he’d made a deal.” Clint was already relaxing against Philip.

 

“Bruce will spread the warning. Rest.” Philip nodded his thanks to Bruce as he left. “We’re going to be okay.”

 

 

[1] All of the Steve/Bucky/Natasha’s bonding quotes are from Walt Whitman’s “I Sing the Body Electric” from _Songs of Myself_.

 

[2] All of Phil’s magic comes from Rainer Maria Rilke’s sonnet, “Extinquish My Eyes.”


	8. On Such a Winter Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Such grace and beauty, our little spider.” From the darkness below, a figure coalesced, tall, vaguely human, cloak of flowing murkiness. It turned its face up to the light and James saw a bloody skull, eye sockets empty. “Perhaps it’s time you both remembered.”

_She danced across the wooden floor, ankles aching, toes blistered and throbbing with pain.  The music was her heartbeat, her body an extension for the flowing notes. Faster, harder, she pushed on, the choreography more difficult with each passing measure. She was going to fall, she couldn’t keep up as the tempo increased and her movements became more frenetic. Then the ground began to crumble beneath her feet, falling away in a rain of pebbles and dirt, and she was sliding into the yawning darkness that opened, tendrils becoming hands that pulled her down …_

“Shhhhh, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

James, his voice low and gravelly in her ear.  Arms looped under hers, his body curled around, a circle of calm.

“It’s a dream. We won’t let you fall.”

The wagon came into focus, Sam’s sleeping form on the floor, light from the banked braiser a diffuse glow. Steve’s watch. She’d woken him up after hers ended and sleep had been a long time coming; ghosts had continued watching her even when she closed her eyes.

They left Singer’s early, just as the sky lightened enough to see the ruts in the road.  In the end, the answer had been simple; warding sigils scratched into the leather of bridles and belts worked the same way as those on the wall, protecting everything surrounded by the circle. The skin contact worked for talismans the same way.  The ghosts hovered just outside of touching range as they traveled from the small town to the larger trade road that ran towards Burosey.

The Cairns were a day and a half ride from Singer’s compound in good weather. Thankfully, the snow had stopped and the roads were slushy but passable so their progress was only slightly slower.  After the bonding ceremony, they’d spent two days researching and making wards.  The time had been worth it; despite not knowing exactly what they were going up against, Singer had been a fount of knowledge, loading down the wagon with all kinds of weapons and potions that might be useful.  Now that it was the four of them, James borrowed one of Singer’s horses for the journey.

With each league that passed, a weight had settled in Natasha’s head, her dreams of late moving from sleep to waking moments. A sense of darkness creeping grew stronger; she’d clamped down on the urge to keep glancing behind. Shadowy dips in the road became yawning chasms, stretching under her feet. Was it the cold breeze sending shivers down her spine or was someone watching them?  Flickers on the edge of her vision, insubstantial images that snuck up on her.

And she couldn’t hide any of it from James or Steven; the bond was an open conduit between them.  She knew how much Steven worried about not being good enough to live up to his legend, the doubt that hovered around James about his worthiness. The flashes of desire, a fire that never died, were just banked coals fanned back to life by a look. She wasn’t used anyone knowing her this intimately, and yet she found that her fears of that the real Natasha was unlovable had been wrong. If anything, knowing exactly how much Steven and James wanted her, how they too worried, made her feel stronger.

They went as long as they could, until the night closed in around them, giving aid to the ghosts to press in tight. They split the guard into four shifts, the others crowding in the wagon, sharing the bed or sleeping on the floor.  But none of the protections could ease the fear in the pit of her stomach that they were walking into a very dangerous situation.

James’ hand absently stroked over the woolen shirt that covered her stomach; his breath warmed the back of her neck. Solid and real, he offered her solid ground, and she snuggled into the protective circle of his arms, eyelids drooping again.

* * *

_“We’d be better off if you’d never been born! Useless whelp. Don’t even know if you’re really mine.”_

_Six-year-old Clint cringed, squeezing further into the tiny space under the cabinet. His father was in a towering rage, face mottled and splotchy, empty whiskey bottle close at hand._

_“Never good enough. Just another mouth at the teat to suck money out of the coffers. I told you to get rid of him, woman, but you didn’t listen!”_

_His mother, head bowed, back hunched to protect herself, cried out as Harold’s hand smacked her across the shoulder. She crumpled to the floor like a rag doll, her tears almost silent._

_“An ant has no quarrel with a boot,” Loki said, spinning the wine in his goblet and sniffing the aroma. “You run full tilt against things more powerful than you can imagine. He will squash you without a thought.”_

_Running, the edge so close, the ground slippery with slushy half-melted snow, Clint knew there was no one to save him this time. The shadow that chased him was nipping at his heels, the icy cold of the grave in its touch._

_“Make you scared enough, and you’ll give up your freedom of your own volition. You need to be told what to do, to know the joy of serving.”_

_Dead bodies littered the ruined city, friends, family, loyal thanes. White bones revealed beneath torn skin, and the dark red of drying blood. Clint stumbled through the mess, looking for Philip, calling his name. Before him rose a figure, dark coat, brass buttons, face like a demon from hell. It laughed and Clint and pointed beneath a pile of rubble. Clint’s hands scrabbled, tossing away rock and dirt until …_

“Clint,” Philip called him out of the dream.

Blinking, Clint saw the fire, felt its warmth. Others were sitting up, looking at him; Darcy and Bruce, Carol still on watch, Samuel and Dean, Tony Stark and James Rhodes. He must have called out in his sleep.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, tugging the covers up around his neck and laying back down. “Bad dream.”

Last thing he wanted to do was show any weakness. After Philip had chased the monster out of him, Clint had worried about his ability to lead the troop on this journey. He told only Philip about his mind being awhirl with left over anger and hatred, the flashes of memories or images from the creature that had inhabited his skin. He needed to be charge, together and fully focused. Too many variables yet to understand to show weakness.

The pieces were coming together; from Clint’s description Samuel had tracked down an entry in one of the tomes they’d discovered in the cave system. A soul so evil that death was no more than a freeing of the darkness to grow more powerful over the ages. The king of the undead, drawing upon the power of the living and dead. From what Clint had shared, he believed it; the raw anger was honed to the sharpest point, a dagger of pure loathing.

They’d left the manor after the one day Clint agreed to rest. He didn’t fight when Philip announced he was going along; if this thing was as dangerous as the Winchesters seemed to think, they’d need all the bonded pairs together to fight it. A rider was sent with a message to Natasha and the others, but the group rode straight to the Cairns, cutting a good day out of the journey.

“They can’t get to us. Darcy’s spell is working,” Philip murmured in his ear. Bruce had worked out a way to expand the area of the protective sigils.

The waterproof tarp crinkled under them as Clint shifted onto his back so he could look at Philip. The flames cast shadows over them both, flickering light and darkness mixing on the planes of Philip’s face. Clint traced along the line of Philip’s jaw.

“We’re getting closer,” Clint whispered. “The pull is stronger.”

Philip’s arm snaked across Clint’s waist, tugging Clint in tight. He buried his nose in the crook of Clint’s neck. “I’m a jealous bastard; no one can have you but me.”

Clint snorted, the sound loud in the stillness of the night.  “Oh, really? Are you going to fight for my honor?”

“Every time, Clint. Every time.”

* * *

 

_“Do you have a plan?” Margaret asked, pulling her horse up alongside Steven’s.  The wind whipped the brown curls around her face, tendrils escaping from her braid. She wore her traveling leathers, the brown cloak spread out over the rump of Chester, her chestnut destrier. “Or are we doing the usual, winging it.”_

_Smooth skin, her cheeks flushed from the cold, those ruby red lips curled up in a smile. Young and in her prime, Margaret was exactly how Steven remembered her right down to the mischief in her eyes._

_“We have options,” he explained. “Magical objects to fight this thing with.”_

_“Ah, winging it. Got it.” She smirked, so familiar a look that Steven’s heart contracted. Gods, but he missed her wit and intelligence._

_“What do you know?” he asked. She always did this, needle him until he had to ask for help. He wasn’t the best at knowing when he needed it. And Peggy knew everything. That was a certainty._

_“That’s a loaded question,” she said with a laugh. “Death brings clarity and a crispness to understanding. Or at least it did until he cast a pall over us all.”_

_“He. An undead creature that controls ghosts.” They’d gotten that much from their research. “Very old, very powerful, recently stirred back to life.”_

_“More like vexed into waking.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “So long gone from the physical plane that he forgets for centuries to even notice you.”_

_“Vexed. By the reemergence of magic. Philip and Loki and the Sorcerer and others. Yes, that makes sense. But what does he want? Why sent the ghosts after us?”_

_Black snaked over her fingers and the back of her hand. “Revenge is a dish best served cold, or so the old saying goes.”_

_“Revenge for what? If he’s that powerful and that old …” Steven mused._

_“Oh he has never forgotten those who took away his humanity.  He burns to seek vengeance upon them and their descendants.” Black crawled up her neck and across her cheeks. “He was an evil man in life; in death, there is no humanity left, just darkness.”_

_“Peggy,” Steven said. She turned cold black eyes his way, her skin melting until only a grinning skull remained._

_“It is quite simple, Captain. I have left humanity behind and harnessed the power of the gods.” The voice rasped, harsh and filled with dissonance. “Soon, you will see.”_

“Steve!” James shook his arm; Steven’s head snapped up just in time to pull up the reins and keep his horse on the road. “You okay?”

“I’m …” He couldn’t find the words to explain. The oppressive weight of the ghostly stares bore down on his shoulders. “Sorry. I got distracted. “

“Yeah, man, sell that lie to someone else. Your heart is pounding and you’re bleeding off energy.” James nudged him with an elbow, their horses dancing close together behind the wagon. “Natasha’s dreams rubbing off on you?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” Steven sighed. “I was having a conversation with Peg.”  To his credit, James only nodded and waited for Steven to continue. “She said that this thing is out for revenge against those who took his humanity.”

“Okay. Powerful magic bent on wreaking vengeance. Wouldn’t be the first time.” That was James, always cocksure of their abilities. “Already dead, so half the work is done.”

“Be serious, Bucky. There are four of us against something strong enough to defy death. And we have no idea how to destroy him.”

“Since when have we ever needed a plan? You think better on your feet anyway. With Natasha, it … he may run the other direction.” James grinned but couldn’t hide the lines of worry around his eyes. “I can’t believe we found each other and her without there being a reason. The power of three, right?”

“Right,” Steven said, even though his heart still harbored doubts.

* * *

 

The shadows flowed across the ground, circling the riders, darting out, testing the limits of the protective circle.  Haunted faces stared as they passed, silently following their progress along the road. They avoided the eyes, cloudy and sunken, looking out of the corner of their eyes to track movement. Silence reigned; no one wanted to carry on a conversation in the oppressive atmosphere.

To Philip’s sight, the ghosts were ringed in an aura that pulsed red and black, a baleful warning of their lethal potential. Strands bound them up tight and spun off in the direction the group was heading, winding up and over obstacles, leading back to the thing that controlled them.

All were feeling the effects, malevolence almost visible in the air, thickening the closer they got to the Cairns. Clint was carrying the most, his face pale beneath the wind chapped red cheeks. Only when Clint agreed that Philip was part of the expedition did Philip give in; truly, Clint was too vulnerable to walk back into the creature’s sphere of influence, but nothing could stop Clint when he got a notion in his head.

Between one breath and the next, Philip floated out of his body, up and over Lola’s head. He picked up speed until he was hurtling just above the trees, the ground flying by as if he were standing still. A sharp turn North and he rose along the foothills, banking to the East and scaling a tall peak. Through a set of double doors into a cavernous entry hallway. Up a flight stairs, down hallways, specific details gone too fast to register.  Into a room where Loki sat cross legged on the floor in the middle of a chalk circle.

_“Ah, there you are. It’s hard to get your attention these days.” He raised an eyebrow at Philip’s traveling attire. “On the road, I see. Found a new piece of Rogers’ armor?”_

_“What do you want?” Philip asked, tinge of anger in his voice. He had no time for Loki’s theatrics. “I have other concerns than stroking your ego.”_

_“And here I was going to offer my aide, but you offer me harsh words. Perhaps I was mistaken; I had thought you interested in protecting your people.” Loki paused, mouth twisted in a smirk. “I am fond of you and your handsome husband, believe it or not.”_

_“Any aide you give would come with strings attached,” Philip said. Loki did nothing for free and only if he could gain something for himself._

_“True, I have been tasked to deal with a minor inconvenience, one that has been troubling peaceful souls. Were he to be handled efficiently, I would gain favor,” Loki admitted._

_“And if some of us end up dead in the process, that would be a perk?” Philip was thinking of how to get any information they could use from Loki without getting himself entangled. They could use as much knowledge as they could get._

_“Or if you all survive, the experience would prepare you for the coming war. Maybe even give you a slight advantage.” Loki shrugged, nonchalant as if he cared not that he was planning for all eventualities._

_“You truly are on no one’s side but your own,” Philip said._

_“No one else will be.” His voice held a hint of emotion, but Philip didn’t know if that was yet another trick. “So, do you know where to look for his phylactery?”_

_Philip had never heard of that word much less what it meant, but he wasn’t going to let Loki know that. “We have ideas,” he said instead._

_“Tsk, tsk. Lies are obvious in this state.  You can’t kill him by destroying what’s left of his body; salt and burn all you like, but until you find where he stores his power, he will come back.”  Loki picked up a book from a stack near his knee. “Consider this a loan. I will need it back one day. Good luck.”_

He was dragged into a spinning current of air and whirled around; the world tilted then righted itself as he slammed into his body. Gasping, he jerked upright, pulling Lola to a stop so he could catch his breath. Each expansion of his lungs hurt as the band across his chest refused to loosen.  His hands felt numb, leather reins sliding between unresponsive fingers.

“Breathe, Phil,” Clint was saying. “That’s it. One breath at a time.  Come back to me.”

“Here,” he managed. “I’m here.”

Clint’s palm circled his wrist and the band splintered, a rush of oxygen flowing into his system. He sucked in more air until his brain settled into its usual pattern.

“Loki.  He summoned me,” Philip explained. “Book. He gave me a book.”

Patting his saddlebags, he felt a suspicious lump; opening the flap, he pulled the leather bound volume out and held it in the light. Faded gold lettering adorned the cover, gilt leaf edges worn with age.

Samuel whistled as he leaned over to look at it. “A Grand Grimoire? I didn’t think it really existed.”

“The True Red Dragon?” Bruce’s voice sounded awed. “There are scholars at the university who would love to have a copy.”

“And the Men of Letters will kill to keep it under wraps,” Dean said. “It’s on their ten most dangerous writings list.”

“Congratulations, Phil,” Darcy said. “You’re the proud owner of a deadly book.”

“The real question is, what’s Loki up to?” Clint said.

* * *

 

The road curved to the north, mountain rising on their left and the cairns spreading out on their right. An open space, covered in untouched snow, to pull off the road, and then the hillocks began surging up from the ground, rounded mounds of earth littered with tumbled rocks, pathways winding between. Trees sprouted from the graves, their knobby roots finding purchase on the angled slopes, gnarled trunks twisted in a bid for sunshine. The branches, bereft of leaves at this time of year, stretched up like skeletal arms and bony fingers that intertwined with others.  A knot formed in the pit of James’ stomach, and the taste of bile rose in the back of his throat. It tasted bitter, ashes and grit, charcoal and blood.

Sam pulled the wagon off the road and they worked in silence as they laid the salt circle and imbued it with the power of their bond. Hobbling the horses to the wagon safe inside, they drew their weapons and surveyed the scene.

“Do you feel anything?” James asked Steven. If there was a part of Steven’s armor here, the shield should be aligned to it. The plan was to find the piece first and then regroup. After much discussion, and Sam being very adamant about his role in the proceedings, they’d determined on who had the role of distraction. James wasn’t happy about it, but it was necessary.

Steven held his shield in front of him, closed his eyes and turned in a slow arc. Even with his eyes open and his senses on the lookout, James could sense the vibration running along the bond. He also shared Natasha’s anxiousness to get going and his own unease was flowing out in return.

Between one blink and the next, everything changed.

_“You and I both know that to build a better world, sometimes you have to tear down the old one,” the blonde man said. Despite the wrinkles and grey in his hair, he exuded power, from the shine on his black shoes to the way he tugged at his strange jacket to straighten it. “You know your mission.”_

_James’ first impulse was to step back, but he held his ground, feet firm on the hard grey surface. He shook his head, his hand squeezing the hilt of his dagger. “No.”_

_“How long can you pretend to be a simple soldier?” Margaret Carter asked. “You have to tell him.”_

_“How can I?” he asked, turning in her workshop to face her. “I know I’m not worthy.”_

_“Worthy? You’re just a killer. You want to save the world but you don’t want to change it.” Black hood covered the face of the Sorcerer, only twin points of red glow in the recess, shadows covering the rest.  He leaned over, iron lid in his gloved hand._

_“Please. I promised,” James begged, icy coldness of the chamber seeping into his bones._

_“Don’t fret. I’m going to show you something …” The lid clanged shut and the chill overtook him._

“James.” Heat flowed from her hand on his cheek, up from where Steven clasped his hand.

He swallowed the lump of fear in his throat. “Let’s do this thing before it gets stronger,” he said, voice a low growl. “I’m tired of being yanked around. You got a bead on this thing?”

“I think so,” Steven said, concern in his eyes. But it wasn’t their way to talk about it; thank the gods Natasha was the same. Action was James’ preferred choice whenever a problem presented itself. “Southwest, towards the stream.”

They split up, James and Natasha stepping over the line first and wandering down the easternmost entrance trail. Make as much noise as possible and draw the ghosts towards them, that was their job. Try to make sense of the maze of cairns and find the older section. Give Steven and Sam time. 

The first few paces were easy, James’s boots sinking into the inches of snow and leaving muddy footprints as they went. Wan light filtered down from where the sun was hidden behind the thin grey clouds. Natasha jogged around a cairn whose rock slab door was cracked and fallen over, revealing the darkness inside. These were the more recent additions, maybe only three generations old. As they wove through the graveyard, the trees reached higher and a mist began to gather in the low spots. A heavy weight grew, the eyes of haunted figures noting their passing. From the map Singer had given them, the oldest mounds were at the Southern edge, tucked in among rolling hills that separated Stark’s land from Richards.

The first figures they saw were soldiers in their uniforms of red and gold, Stark retainers. “Been a Stark in Burosey for at least five generations,” Natasha mumbled. “These guys aren’t too old.”

The Cairns had been ancient in James’s time, a place of rumors and legends. No one seemed to know who the oldest buried here were or when they’d died, only that story after story mentioned the place as existing before. Nothing else, just before. Red uniforms gave way to court clothing, very out of fashion. Men and women, young sons and babes in arms. A noble family, buried all together in one cairn. The creeping feeling beneath his skin grew to an itch; James breathed through it and kept moving, his feet falling in the same spots as Sam’s.

The light dimmed and the mist stirred as they walked. Family fell behind them then more soldiers in the livery of a past King, dark spirals of black curling on their skin. Women with fierce faces, swords on their hips. Clothing styles changed into ones James recognized from his era but they passed through that area quickly and into a dense section where darkness out weighted the rays of the sun.  These ghosts were restless, eyes black and unblinking. They didn’t stay still, emerging from behind their stone entry ways to follow their progress.

“I think we have their attention,” James said. “Let’s hope the protective spell holds out.”

The ground rose under their feet, the upward slope of a hillside; the mounds shrank down, half cave dug into the side of the earth. Snow almost obscured the bumps, entrances hidden from years of weather and erosion. It grew hard to pick up his foot, an unseen wall of resistance slowing him down. A turn and they found their path blocked by three men; their strange clothing was black, form fitting suits with strange insignia. The one in the middle had spiky dark hair, black belts crossing over his chest, half gloves on his fingers. He glowed with a faint red outline, energy jumping around him.

“Not this way,” he said. “Look further up.”

Natasha and James shared a silent glance, veered away and up a steeper grade, giving the ghosts a wide berth. From time to time, others would appear, mostly silent, hands pointing the paths to take. The hair on the back of James’ neck rose, a steady static dancing around his body, the air filled with it. The trees grew taller, trunks thick and gnarled, the path rockier and more precarious. The path became no more than a deer trail and disappeared entirely in places. A prickling of awareness became a painful sliver that nestled up to his heart; Natasha’s paranoia was almost a living thing, entwining with his own ill feelings. Underneath it all, Steven flowed strong and sure, the base of their bond.

“I don’t think we’re in the Cairns anymore,” Natasha said, stopping on an outcropping to survey where they’d been.  Carefully placing his feet, James walked onto the downward slope.  From here, he could see the road glimpses of the graves through the branches. Ghosts stood below, between the boles, spread out in a haphazard semi-circle, watching the two of them intently.

“Seems like spirits give terrible directions,” James replied. “We should head back …”

The bottom fell out as a third of the bond suddenly winked out; strength drained away and Steven’s presence, only recently regained, was gone.  No warning, just there one second and then missing the next.

“Steve!” James shouted, heedless of their audience. A deafening silence greeted his cry. “Natasha, did you …”

He spun around at the strangled sound. Arms outstretched, Natasha was balanced on the edge of crumbling ground, her heels hanging over into the blackness that boiled up and out.  Her body twisted as she tried to find purchase and keep from falling, but James could see her tilt back, loose the center of gravity and begin to topple over.

In two steps, he was there, grabbing one flailing hand and then the other as her feet slipped into the hole. Overextended, James dropped flat on the ground, bracing himself for her weight as she came to a stop, hanging from his hold. She sank down into a mass of black that roiled and moved around her; tendrils crawled up her legs, and she struggled, crying out as they touched bare skin.

“James,” she said, a forced calm on her face. “Can you back up? Pull me out?”

A chuckle came from below. James’s left wrist burned like a brand, the binding sigil of the Sorcerer scorching the skin. A gravely deep voice, heavily accented, spoke.

“Who do you belong to Barnes? Aren’t you just a puppet on someone else’s strings?”

Gritting his teeth at the pain, James tried to crawl backwards with his elbows and legs but the snow was slippery and he couldn’t gain any ground.  A pulse of fear ran through him, either his or Natasha’s or both.

“Swing me,” Natasha suggested. The black was curling around her waist and James could feel its tug, an opposing force that put pressure on his shoulders and arms. “I can flip out.”

The first few movements were small then Natasha leaned her torso back and added her own weight to the arc. She grew heavier as the shadows climbed; sweat beaded on James’s forehead and his hands grew slippery but he didn’t break his hold on her wrists. It was going to work, he thought, he could release her at the apex of a swing and she’d be free.

“Such grace and beauty, our little spider.” From the darkness below, a figure coalesced, tall, vaguely human, cloak of flowing murkiness. It turned its face up to the light and James saw a bloody skull, eye sockets empty. “Perhaps it’s time you both remembered.”

A skeletal hand closed over James’s left arm, clacking fingers sharp as knives that sank into his flesh and to bone.  The bloom of crimson ran over his palm and down Natasha’s arm, slick and sticky.  Vaguely, he heard Natasha call his name and his own agonized shout, but the rest was drowned out by the flood of images that assailed his mind.

_Steve, skinny and young, standing up to two bigger boys, fists at the ready._

_Natasha, long legs and beautiful arches, dancing across the floor._

_Sam, goggles covering his eyes, aloft, wings spread wide._

He growled and summoned all his strength, swinging Natasha wide, almost out of the hole.  The hand ripped through more of his flesh but James didn’t stop.  In front of his eyes, blood turned to molten silver and crept up his arm; every inch covered by the melt deadened.

_Steve, bloody lip and bruised cheek, pleading eyes, promising to never leave him._

_Clint, leather jacket and goofy grin, bow pulled back, letting an arrow fly without looking._

_Natasha, dusty clothes and smudged face, limping along in the debris._

“Soon,” the cloaked figure said. “He will come and I will have you, a matched set. Then will come the others. Such sweet justice to use you to rise to power once again.”

_Tony Stark, gleaming red and gold armor, glass of whiskey in his hand, smirk on his face._

_A tall blonde, red sash, flashing smile, lifting off the ground._

_Peggy, brown curls, red hat, red lips, high heels._

“Nat,” James whispered as his fingers turned cold and he lost the feel of her skin. Her hand slipped free, transferring all the weight to his right shoulder.

“It’s okay, James,” she replied. “He can’t have all of us. Get to Steve and Sam.”

_A red cape spread out, blonde hair tousled, the god’s blue eyes opened wide in death._

_Natasha, still and cold, no breath in her broken body._

_Steve, toppling over the edge, plunging into the freezing water below._

“No!” More a plea than a cry, he felt her grip loosen on his wrist; her hand slid through his.

“I expect you to come save me,” she said, a sad smile on her face.

Then she was falling, the darkness enveloping her.

* * *

 

“And I thought graveyards were creepy before,” Sam said as they wound their way deeper past the mounds. Silent spectres watched their every move. “I’ll never go into one again without feeling their eyes on me.”

“At least they’re just looking,” Steven replied. “And the uniforms are familiar in this section; I think we’re getting close.”

“Aw, I was just getting used to the scenic beauty. Might make a nice summer home here,” Sam said with a grin.

James and Natasha’s unease flowed through the bond; Steven projected back his surety that all would be well. They could face this together.

“Um, that’s strange.” Sam drew up to a stop. “They don’t normally wave us down.”

Pencil thin mustache, tall and slim, the man looked like he had just come from the battlefield, leather armor and longsword. 

“Monty.” Gods, Steven had felt like he’d just seen his friend a few months ago. They’d ridden into battle side-by-side; last Steven had seen, Monty had been fighting at the lakeside, almost overrun by the Red Sorcerer’s forces.

“Hey, Steve,” James Falsworth answered. “I’d say it’s been a long time, but you just woke up and time doesn’t mean much when you’re dead. So I’ll just say it’s good to see you.”

A cold wind whipped through the graves; Steven shivered as the hackles rose on the back of his neck. “You too,” Steven replied. “I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“Ah, you’ve come for the sword. Good. You’ll need it.” He turned and floated away, around a headstone and into a grave. Steven tried to follow, but a massive slab barred the entrance.

“Grave robbing?” Sam asked. “My momma always said these graves were cursed; anyone who goes inside will die horribly.”

“Those are just the ones at the back,” Falsworth said, sticking his head through the stone. “Very old, very dark things live there. They predate the Cataclysm; our angry lich, for example. Come now, Cap, pull this out of the way.”

“Lich?” Steven wrapped his fingers around the edge of the large rock and solidified his footing before he heaved it to the left.

“Nasty piece of work, he is.” Falsworth sat on a curve of earth and crossed his ankles. “Rips out a piece of his own soul in order to live forever.  Bonafide loony, that’s what he is.”

Sam stepped up and put his back against the edge of the stone; together they pushed and the slushy ground gave way, the rock rolling a few inches. “How do you kill it?” Steven asked.

“Two pronged approach. Find the missing piece -- he’ll have stored it somewhere safe -- and destroy it. Then take him out.” Falsworth shrugged. “No harder than that night time raid in Atlavana.”

The rock gave a foot, a whoosh of stale air as a slice of darkness appeared beyond. “If I remember, the intel on that operation was wrong and we walked into an ambush,” Steven said.

“I didn’t say it would be easy, just how to do it. Be careful of that first step. There’s a drop.” Falsworth nodded towards the opening. “Oh, and one more thing. When you cross the threshold, you’ll be cut off from the others. Magic warding and the like.”

Steven took a breath, sucked in his stomach and squeezed into the grave. Fetid smells greeted him as he lowered his foot off the stone threshold and sat it down on the hard packed earth. Sam passed a torch through, flicking a spark off his flint to light the prepared end. The moment he was fully inside the narrow hallway, a deadly silence fell inside his head, a curtain draped over his bonds. Step by step, he eased into the main chamber. Long notches were carved in the walls, separate passageways dug into other smaller rooms. Bodies lay interred in grave cloths, grey with years of decay; yellowed bones spread out in death, flesh long gone, bits of fabric clinging to the skin.  In the center was a tomb, carved from marble, sides adorned with battles scenes, family, faces, all long gone. On top lay an effigy, Falsworth in his armor, shield and sword across his chest.

“I’ve looked better,” Falsworth said, tilting his head to look at the figure. “They didn’t get my nose right.”

“I’m sorry.” Steven felt a wave of sadness at all that was lost. “I wasn’t there for you.”

“I lived a good life, Steve. Married a woman with curves who could cook. Had children and grandchildren. Gave Dum Dum a hard time at the reunions. It was you and Bucky who were denied a happy ending.” Falsworth floated over to a small alcove. “It’s in here. With my grandson Steven.”

The family crest covered the shield that hide the sword; pulling it free, Steven felt the thrum of power race through him, vibrating in harmony with his shield and the knife on his hip.  It was warm in his palm, the contours unforgotten, muscle memory weighing the balance as he hefted the length of adamantine steel. 

“Steven!” Sam’s voice sounded far away; the wan light from outside was partially blocked by Sam’s body. “Something’s happening. I think you need to get out here.”

He moved quickly, dousing the torch in the snow before he squirmed out. A blast of emotion slammed into him, a mental scream of pain and fear. Staggering, he latched onto Sam’s arm to keep from folding under the onslaught. Pure adrenaline surged, Natasha clamping down on her emotions and a wave of intense agony from James.

“The ghosts are going crazy,” Sam said. “They’re all stirred up.”

“James and Natasha. They’re in danger.” Steve yanked all the emotion pouring through the bond and wrapped it around his own, turning it into power that fueled action. “Monty?”

“We’ll clear the way,” Falsworth promised. “As much as we can. Come on boys!”

Others joined him, all with the same distinctive nose and hair line. The swept forward and Steven took off behind them, running as fast as he could along the uneven path, Sam on his heels. They pounded through the graves, the Falsworths pushing away the ghosts that got in their way. Steven’s heart was beating fast with each new pulse along the bond. A blackness hovered on the edge of his vision, shadows flickering with each blink of his eyelids.

The elevation rose, the mounds shrank and Steven heard James’ shout echoing ahead. There, flat on the ground, James dangled, his torso over the ragged edge of a gaping hole. A trail in the snow marked his struggle. As Steven closed the final yards, James slipped further into the writhing darkness. Lunging, Steve threw himself forward, wrapping his hands around James’ ankles and yanking him back.

“No!” James fought free of Steven’s hold. “Natasha’s down there. It’s got her.’

“James, we’ll get her,” he promised even though he had no idea what had happened. “We need a plan …”

“We go down in there and get her back.” James struggled to his feet; his left hand hung useless by his side, blood dripping onto the white ground.

“You’re wounded.” Steve reached out but James shrugged him off.

“No, Steve, he wants us all. You have to get out of here, warn the others …” James stopped and turned; from the ground rose a spectral figure, darkness swirling into a cloak. Red face with a dead stare surveyed them; ice coated the rocky hillside, spreading outward.

“Welcome, friends. I’ve been waiting for you.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swirling around him, the music almost drowned out the voice. Harmony between the spheres above and Clint below was a heady brew; he drank it in, floating on the sound, all concerns dropping away. From this vantage point, Clint could see it all, an endless stream of lives, the futility of fighting against time. Villains rose and fell, heroes tried and triumphed then they did it all again. High above it all, Clint reached for the answers that were just at his fingertips.
> 
>  
> 
> “Clint. Philip needs you.”

Natasha’s knee throbbed, her leg twisted beneath her where she fell onto the cave’s floor. Sticky blood gummed up the lashes of her left eye; her throat was dry and scratchy from the dirt stirred up by her landing. Giving her eyes a few moments to adjust, Natasha surveyed the cavern: smooth walls, floor slick with condensation beneath her fingers. She had good night sight, enough to make out a number of passageways leading off into the mountain, probably to inner chambers.

 

Pushing up, she flinched as she straightened out her leg, gently probing the muscles with her fingers. Nothing broken, thank the gods, just a wrenched knee and tender ankle. She could work with that. Closing her eyes, she concentrated, reaching out along the newly formed bond to find James and Steven. Pain radiated up her arm, an echo of James’ wound, and worry flooded from Steven. Others fluttered around the edges of her awareness, a clear sense of Clint flavoring the tenuous connection.

 

Of the lich, she saw or felt nothing. The cavern was littered with dark shapes but the taint of evil was gone for the moment. She used a nearby heavy oaken box to get to her feet; the hole in the ceiling was too high to reach even standing on something. Her options were to wait until someone came for her, take the risk the lich would return first, or explore further in, hoping to find a way out.

 

A wave of adrenaline rushed through her, eddies of whatever was happening above. She didn’t have much time to decide; gingerly putting weight on her leg, she bit her lip to keep the gasp of pain slipping out, and she made her way to one of the openings, an old superstition of hers to always start on the left.

 

“No.” The word was loud and clear. Turning, she saw the ghost of a man, flickering about the edges, pointing to the rightmost doorway. “Here. Hurry.”

 

For a moment she thought it was Clint, but then the ghost solidified and she saw his clothes, a strange blend of slim fitted pants and sleeveless vest. A light filtered out of the passage, and she could make out the color of his dark hair and the wrinkles on his face. Not Clint, but maybe one of his Frasier ancestors buried somewhere in the cairns.

 

“I can’t believe I’m following a ghost into a Lich’s lair,” she muttered to herself, but follow him she did.

  
“Consider this payback.” The ghost’s voice floated back to her. “A debt paid.”

 

Before she could ask what he meant, the ceiling rose and Natasha found herself in what was clearly a treasure cave. Caskets and statues, carefully preserved stacks of books and paintings, and piles of gold littered the floor. The glow of magic emanated from multiple places, enough to cast the room into shadows instead of darkness. Overwhelmed, she could easily get lost taking it all in, but a jolt of agony from the bond pushed her forward. Ignoring the rest, she honed in on where the ghost had stopped, a small metal box no more than one foot by one foot, half buried in a mound of silver coins of all sizes.

 

“This?” She wished she had more light to examine the item. “This is what you want me to see?”

 

A glint caught the corner of her eye; dropping to one knee, she moved aside some gears and mechanical parts and found a smooth cylinder with an elongated clear glass end. Running her fingers over the surface, she felt letters and symbols inscribed just above an oval bump. She pressed her finger on the trigger and a yellow glow like sunlight sprang from the glass.

 

“A magical torch. I’ve seen one of these in the King’s Museum.” A marvel of mechanics, the easy to carry wand fit in the palm of her hand. “I can’t imagine how old this is and yet it still works.”

 

The ground shook; dirt and debris rained down from the ceiling as Natasha covered her head.

 

“Hurry,” the ghost said. “We don’t have much time; they won’t last long against him. He’s too powerful. Open the box.”

 

Now that she could see, Natasha found the sides of the box were covered in ornate carvings. A large tree spread along the sides, roots reaching under the bottom and branches covering the lid. Circles resided within the leaves, each a unique design. The lock was in the trunk, the legs thick roots.

 

“It’s locked, but that shouldn’t stop you,” the ghost said.

 

“It’s a puzzle box,” Natasha murmured. “Put them in the right order and it opens.”

 

Something niggled in her brain, one of the strange memories that floated just beneath her consciousness. A book with a thick leather binding, design sewn into the cover. Maybe something she’d seen at Singer’s house; they’d looked through so many tomes she didn’t remember them all. There’d been circles in that tree too, a strange sort of order. Gazing at the designs on the box, they looked similar.

 

“Fire at the bottom,” she muttered to herself. The circle with flames carved inside moved under her fingers; she shifted the pieces until it was in place on one of the legs. “Caves next.” She found that one on the other side. “Bones.” That one took her a few moments until she realized one circle turned sideways looked like a skull. “Trees.” It clicked in place on the middle of the left side. “Ice.” The ice of the remembered picture was a giant snowflake on the box. On the lid, she placed the mountains on the left, the forest on the right and the citadel in the middle. The last one went right over the lock, a miniature map.with continents and oceans. “Okay, here goes.” With a confidence she didn’t feel, she pushed the circle into place and squeezed her eyes shut in case she’d set off any traps.

Nothing happened. No sound, no explosion, no acid. The box felt exactly the same in her hands.  She tapped each of the circles then moved them out of alignment and back into their spots. Still nothing. Another thump from above rocked the ceiling; she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and traced the design with her fingers, letting feel guide her. More rattles, anger and ache bleeding through the bond but she kept calm, checking every inch of the metal surface. Finally, on the very top branches, she felt a small raised circle with connecting lines; pressing down, she heard the sound of metal sliding across metal and a light seeped out of the cracks of the box, flooding the room as she lifted the cover.

 

Inside was a blue cube, glowing with magic so strong she could feel its touch on her skin. Power built without even touching the transparent surface, a pulse like a heartbeat that echoed her own. Out of the cave, it rushed, an invisible wind that stirred everything in its path. With it came flashes of memories, hers and others, those who had touched or been touched by the artifact. The weight of centuries hung on the images as person after person tried to claim it. Men and women of all skin colors, creatures so alien she had no idea what they were, monsters and sorcerers and heroes.

 

“It was his prison for thousands of years,” the ghost said, stepping up beside her, his nearness like a comforting friend. “Someone or something tried to find the cube and inadvertently set him free.”

 

“He put part of his soul in here? So we destroy it and he’s gone?” she asked. Gingerly, she picked up the box and stood.

 

“No one knows where his phylactery is; I’m not sure even he remembers where he hid it after all this time. But you can trap him again and keep the cube from falling into the wrong hands. Magic this powerful calls to evil and they’ll be looking for it to use for their own ends.” He grinned and Natasha saw the sadness in the turn of his lips. “Be careful; no one can control it. Once iyou touch it, the power of the cube is inside of you forever.”

 

“How does it work?” Natasha tilted the box, looking for some sort of device to activate it. “How do we get him back inside?”

 

“That’s the hard and the easy part. He just needs to touch it.” The ghost reached out his hand, his fingers hovering over the glowing surface. “Consider us even, Tasha. Oh, and don’t trust Loki further than you can shoot him.”

 

The blue glow swirled up his fingers and along his hand as he collapsed, flowing into the cube with the same sparkle as the power. In a breath, she was alone in the room. In the bright light, she saw another passage opening on the far side of the room. Closing the lid, tucking the box under her arm, she pointed the torch that way and went as fast as her aching leg could carry her.

* * *

 

“Hello friends. I’ve been waiting for you.”

 

“We’re not friends.” Steven stood his ground despite the fear rippling from the lich’s body. James was on his left, just like old times, and Sam stood just behind them both, his weapons at the ready.

 

“No, I suppose not.” The creature tilted its head, cowl slipping back to reveal blood red bone and dark empty eye sockets. “But we are related in a way, both of us created by magic. Isn’t that right, Steven?”

 

“You’re pure evil,” Steven replied, shifting his grip on the hilt of his sword. “And you’re going to leave the dead alone to rest in peace.”

 

“Am I? Well, then I’ll have to turn my attention to the living.” With that, he stretched out an arm,  skeletal fingers covered in a dark energy aimed directly at them. Steven dived to the right and James dodged to the left. Coming out of his roll, Steven saw Sam leap straight up, blast going harmlessly beneath his feet as he hovered, a pair of beautifully patterned wings unfurling and keeping him aloft.

 

“Did you know about that?” James shouted.

 

“Nope,” Steven replied, running to another tree as a second blast hit the spot where he’d been. “But he makes for a good distraction.”

 

As if on cue, Sam dived at the lich, rolling out of the way at the last second; his laughter rang out over the graveyard. “I’m flying!” he shouted, drawing the lich’s fire, darting in and out of range.

 

Taking advantage of the moment, Steven charged, sword and shield at the ready. He drove the blade into the lich’s midsection, slicing through the misty body. The lich screamed and turned, hand trying to catch him; he blocked it with his shield. As energy met metal, the sky rumbled and Steven was thrown backwards by the reaction. The ground shook, rocks tumbling down the hillside. The lich shimmered, losing form then coming back together.

 

“You can’t kill me!” He shouted. “I am immortal, magic itself.”

 

A lance of black energy slammed into the ground, knocking Steven back into the trunk of a pine tree. The air left his lungs and he couldn’t drag another one in for what felt like minutes, only able to watch as James’ knives flew right through the lich, burying themselves in a nearby tree. In a flash, the lich oozed around James, skeletal hand closing on James’ mangled arm and squeezing, wrenching a scream from James’ lips.

 

“Stop it!” Steven staggered a step or two. “Don’t!”

 

Silver quarrels bisected the lich’s body, leaving a trail of empty space in their wake; the lich paused, reeling back for a second but then he reformed. Sam swooped and reloaded his hand crossbows for a second volley.

 

Where the lich’s boney fingers touched James, black spread, covering the blood and carved flesh. James thrust his short sword into the lich, but it was as effective as his knives. Kicks went through the mist, leaving black marks on James’ legs. Finally James twisted and brought his sword down on the lich’s arm, metal connecting with bone. Jerking, the lich stumbled back, his hand still attached to James crumbling to dust..

 

Steven’s shield flew true, bisecting the creature at the same time Sam hit it again, detonating another energy wave that rattled trees and rocks alike, throwing James away from the lich. The monster dissolved into a formless mist; before Steven could check on James, the mist surrounded him, clinging to his clothes and burning his face.

 

Malice, a hatred so deep it was burned into the very bones of the lich, rolled over him. Contempt for the weak, superiority, an endless well of disdain. It clutched at Steve’s throat, cutting off his air, and seeped into his pores, eating its way under his skin. He tried to call out for help; the black oozed into his open mouth, tasting of grave dust and ashes. The more he struggled, the tighter the hold became, trapping his arms at his side, his shield clattering harmlessly to the ground when he didn’t catch it.

 

He breathed in the mist and closed his eyes, trying to relax and think. Images or memories seeped into his mind; death and destruction on such a scale unimaginable, so much blood and bone strewed beneath his feet. Bruce, grey haired, face mottled with bruises. Darcy in his arms, her long hair hanging as limp as her body. Carol, arm bent at an impossible angle, lying sprawled on the crumbling earth. Jessica pinned to a wall, head limp and eyes still open in death. Clint,  broken bow and empty quiver, slumped over Philip’s body, protecting him to the end. Natasha, splashes of blood covering her body, her hand reaching towards him. And James, endlessly falling away from him, into the snowy darkness of a chasm, disappearing from view.

 

“Steven!” Sam shouted. Somehow he opened his eyes and saw the grey tinted trees. “Stay with us!”

 

James’ pain flooded over the bond, sharp as a knife, cutting right into Steven’s heart. From Natasha, he felt a sense of hope; alive and on her way, her emotions were loud enough to push back at the lich’s spell. If he could move, get to his shield, he could break it completely.

 

“Still believe good will win.” The creature’s voice whispered inside Steven’s head. “We never truly go away, Steven Rogers. Evil will always exist; your struggles are useless. In the end, chaos wins.”

 

“Get the hell away from him!” Clint’s words rang out.

The mist constricted, clinging to Steven’s body as a sudden force tried to yank it away. Philip, his arm outstretched, closed his fist and pulled. Beside him, Darcy was speaking, calling her magic to add to Philip’s.

 

“ _Ash, Ash, you poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there_.” [1]

 

“You cannot contain me!” The lich was peeling off of Steven, reforming into his terrible visage from before. “I am made of magic, a creature of science. You are nothing before me.”

 

“ _Dying is an art, like everything else_.”

 

Steven’s fingers wiggled; he squirmed free, diving for his shield and out of the way.

 

“He’s too powerful,” Philip said, his voice shaking with his effort. “I don’t think we can hold him long. If anyone has any ideas, now’s the time.”

 

“Silver disrupts him.” Sam landed nimbly “And he really doesn’t like Steven’s shield.”

 

“We hit him with everything we have all at once.” Dean stepped up, nodding to his brother. “We’ve got silver knives and salt bombs.”

 

“I’ll blast him,” Tony offered. “Then can we talk about the fact that Wilson here was flying?”

 

“Darce?” Philip asked. “You ready?”

 

“I’ve got the perfect line. Just say when.”

 

“Steven?” Phil turned to him. “You’re in charge here.”

 

“On three. One, two, three.”

 

Steven threw his shield as Sam fired off another set of bolts. Silver tipped arrows flew from Clint’s bow. The Winchesters added their weapons to the onslaught. Phil focused his magic as Darcy spoke.

 

_“There’s a stake in your fat black heart and the villagers never liked you. They are dancing and stamping on you. They always knew it was you. You bastard, I’m through._ ”[2]

The figure convulsed, exploding into globules of black goo that hung suspended by Phil and Darcy’s spell. Catching his shield, Steven swept the curved edge through the closest floating mass; it split, hissing at the touch then merged back together.

 

“Do you have it?” Clint asked Phil. “It can’t be that easy.”

 

“It’s not,” Dean answered. “As soon as the magic ends, he’ll be back. This is just a temporary measure. Any chance someone has any ideas?”

 

“There’s a silver casket in the wagon,” Sam replied. He launched himself into the air. “I’ll be right back with it.”

 

“Flight is a handy skill,” Anthony said. “What’s he going to do with the wings when he sleeps?”

 

“Handmade cloaks,” Dean said, shrugging. “I should have asked if he had any other silver.”

 

“I think we should worry about Phil and Darcy,” Bruce said, a hand on his wife’s back. “They won’t last much longer. The spell is draining their energy quickly.”

 

As the others were speaking, Steven ran to where James knelt on the ground, his left arm cradled across his body. Dark hair hung over James’ face, concealing his downcast eyes; his arm still bled sluggishly, blackened skin curling up at the edges.

 

“Buck,” Steven dropped to one knee and slipped his arm around James’ back. “You with me?”

 

He was slow to answer, taking long deep breaths before he replied. “I’m with you ‘til the end,” he said. “Not getting rid of me that easily, Rogers. It’s pretty bad, I’ll admit, but I’m still kicking. I need to get up and find Natasha; just don’t let the others see you cuddling me. Got an image to maintain.”

 

“Natasha’s alive and moving; there must be caves below us.” Steven helped James stand, holding him close just to spite the stubborn man. “We’ll get Bruce to look at your arm …”

 

The magic wave slammed into them, almost knocking them back off their feet. Darcy was thrown a few feet back down the hill, right out of Bruce’s hold. With a shout, Clint grabbed at Philip, fingers scrabbling for a hold on Philip’s clothes, trying to keep him from tumbling along the rocky ground. Dirt swirled in the air, obscuring Steven’s vision; when it cleared, he saw the lich standing proudly in place, eerie laughter the only sound in the ensuing silence.

 

“Look at you all. Phil Coulson, young and inexperienced. Clint Barton, useless and missing the mark. Bruce Banner, puny and small. Tony Stark, average and mundane. Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Natasha Romanov. The famous Winchester brothers. Sam Wilson and James Rhodes. You are all ants to me now; what have I to fear from the likes of you?” As he spoke, the ground began to tremble, mild at first then growing in intensity. “You keep trying, all of you. Pathetic, really. It’s time to put a permanent end to this.”

 

Bruce’s battle cry rent the air; he changed between one step and the next, filling out his berserker form and charging the lich. He ran head first into the blast of magical energy that poured out of the creature’s outstretched hand, the red sparks engulfing him. Throwing his head back, he roared, struggling forward despite the blast of the spell, taking the brunt of the damage to protect the others. As Steven hurtled his shield at the monster, it held out its other arm and the shield connected with an invisible wall, bouncing back at Steven.

 

“Fool me once,” the lich chided. “I can fight on more than one front.”

 

“Let’s test that, shall we?” Anthony said, firing a bolt of blue energy from his hand. “Spread out. Take him from all sides. See how much he can handle.” With that he activated his armor and rose smoothly in the air.

 

The battle began in earnest; Steven closed on their adversary, shield at the ready for the first blast of magic, deflecting it to the side. James was behind him like always, his sword at the ready to distract as much as he could. Bolts rained down from Anthony, Dean and Samuel flanked the lich from the North, Samuel chanting in a foreign language and Dean armed with a solid iron length and a silver knife. Clint took the last side, firing arrows that clattered against the invisible shield the lich had built around himself, Rhodes backing him up.

 

For a few moments, Steven thought it was going to work, the full-out onslaught.  An arrow slipped through the curve of his shield, a small ball of mist separating and floating on its own. Sam dove down and captured it in a small silver casket where it smoked and sizzled. Pressing forward, the Hulk breached the magical protection, and it fell with a flash and thump. Big arms tried to grab the lich, but passed through the insubstantial form and the Hulk stumbled out the other side.

 

Then it all went wrong. The lich, instead of dissolving under the attack, drew into himself, becoming a solid mass of dark energy. The silver box began to glow; Sam dropped it, the lid flipping open and the piece slithering out to rejoin the rest. The mass swirled and sparked, the blood red skull grinning at them just before it exploded. The shock wave knocked Steven down; he twisted around, using his shield to protect himself as well as James, tucking it beneath them as they fell. He made sure he took the brunt of the impact, cushioning the blow.

 

“And so it ends, Herr Captain,” the lich said, standing over them. “Good bye.”

 

* * *

Clint tumbled to a stop against an ash tree, controlling his body so he ended upright, his bow carefully protected. From this vantage point, he could see Phil lying crumpled on the ground, eyes closed, completely still except for the slight rise and fall of his chest. Crouching on his feet, he prepared to rush the lich, throw himself at him if necessary.

 

“Clint.” Natasha’s hand on his arm made him jump; he hadn’t heard her approaching. She handed him an iron box; he took it absently, relieved to see her alive and well. “I need you to get him to touch what’s inside. I’m going to distract him.”

 

“Touch what’s inside?” Clint paused, confused. “What’s going on?”

 

“No time to explain,” Nat replied. “Any way you can, get him in contact with the cube.”

 

She darted off without another word, a sign of her trust in their partnership. They’d been together for so long that Clint could almost anticipate her movements; being so in sync had saved both of the lives more than once. If she said this would work, then Clint believed her.

 

“Hey, ugly!” she shouted, drawing his attention up the hillside where she stood, a perfect target. “Rule number twelve; don’t count anyone out until you verify.”

 

With a flick of her wrists, her daggers flashed, sinking into the compact mass and ripping holes in the lich’s body. A fire burned in the empty sockets where his eyes should be. He idly flipped a hand in her direction; she dove to the side into a control roll, bouncing back up closer to Rhodes who was climbing up on his feet.

 

“Have you always been this dumb?” She asked, giving Rhodes a small nod. “Going to have to be better than that to hit us.”

 

Clint clutched the box in his hands, sparing one glance towards his husband whose eyes fluttered open and winked at Clint. Waiting for his chance, he let Natasha play her game, getting the others to join in, one after the next, keeping the creature busy tossing out bolts of energy. Watching carefully, Clint saw his opening; Sam swooped down, Dean Winchester swung his iron rod, and the lich twisted at just the right angle.

 

Two steps and Clint opened the top of the box. The lich’s head came up and began to turn.

 

Another step, within sword range, and Clint’s hand closed around the pulsing blue ....

 

The universe spun out before him, vast and endless, a myriad of stars and planets amidst the velvety blackness. Blue energy washed over him and his chest ached at the coldness that crisped his breath. The world shifted and Clint stood on a bluff, a many towered castle behind him, a vista of green trees and a winding river before him. Beside him, Phil put a hand on his arm.

 

“What happened?” he asked.

 

“An excellent question. How did you get here?” Dark haired closely cropped, black military uniform with weapons on his belt, heavy leather jacket on top, the man spoke with an unfamiliar heavy accent. “Only those who have been touched by the magic can utilize the cube.”

 

“You’re him. The lich. This is what you looked like when you were human.” Clint stared in wonder at the strange symbols that adored the man’s coat. “Where is it? Where did you put the piece of your soul? Is this it?”

 

“This? This is my prison for far too long; I am but an echo of my true self.” He laughed, a harsh sound. “And why would I tell you how to destroy me when I could just destroy you?”

 

With a snap of his fingers, he pointed at Phil; a jagged line of bright blue erupted from his chest and he sagged to the ground with a cry. Clint, torn by the sound, clenched his empty fists.

 

“Stop it,” he ordered. “Or I’ll …”

 

“What? You are inside the cube now. There’s nothing you can do,” the man laughed, twisting his hand and making Phil scream in pain.

 

“Not alone.” The echo in his head had more than one voice behind it. Words came into his mind, a melody that floated to the top of his consciousness and demanded to be spoken.

 

“ _An aged man is but a paltry thing_ ,” Clint told him. “ _A tattered cloak upon a stick_.” He began to sing the rest. “ _Unless it claps its hands and sing, louder still, for every tatter in its mortal dress_.” [3]

 

“No.” The man reeled back a step. “You are no mage.”

 

“ _I_ _put on the knowledge with the power before the indifferent magic let me drop_ ,”[4] Clint replied. He could hear the music now, the full symphony of all of them together, the magic of the bonds. Buoyed up by the rush of power, Clint watched the waves of blue energy roll up his fingers and engulf his hand. “ _Every impulse of light exploding from the core_ ,” Darcy’s voice said in his head. “ _As life flies out of us_.” [5]

 

Lightning quick, he jammed his fist into the man’s chest; the lich’s body changed to black mist that boiled around Clint’s wrist. Blue burst out, pushing back the darkness, chasing it and surrounding it. The energy pulsed; like the night sky with swirls of other galaxies, the blue curled up Clint’s arm.

 

“I will get free,” the lich said, voice cracking as he began to collapse into himself. “ _Mortality has not greater consolation than in the thought that genius is not immortal_.” [6]

 

“Oh, please. Stop with the vague threats and obscure hints. Get back in your cage.” Clint opened his hand and the pieces of the lich collected, invisible walls of the cube forming around them. “We have bigger fish to fry than you.”

 

Flesh melted away, leaving only a red grinning skull. “How little you know,” it whispered. “Hope is a human illusion.”  Then he was gone, the crystal sides closing in on him, trapping him inside. The cube sat in Clint’s palm, energy rippling out. The world warped with it, castle disappearing into the swollen mounds of the cairns.

 

“Here,” Natasha held the iron box open “Put it back.”

 

The universe sang its siren’s call, a song so sweeping that Clint was carried away by it. He could know the secrets of the spheres, feel the power of the stars. All he need do was fade into the blue, let it take him wherever he wanted. He teetered on the edge, the abyss welcoming with open arms.

 

“Clint.”

 

Swirling around him, the music almost drowned out the voice. Harmony between the spheres above and Clint below was a heady brew; he drank it in, floating on the sound, all concerns dropping away.  From this vantage point, Clint could see it all, an endless stream of lives, the futility of fighting against time. Villains rose and fell, heroes tried and triumphed then they did it all again. High above it all, Clint reached for the answers that were just at his fingertips.

 

“Clint. Philip needs you.”

 

Philip. Phil. His husband. Warm hands and tender lips. Small sighs and furrowed brows. Ink stained fingers and hard biceps. Understanding smile and tiny snores. The curve of his back, the scar on his knee, the silky thread of his hair.  Soft embraces, hard kisses, demanding thrusts. Bodies fit together like a variation on the same theme, a perfect harmony of magic and souls. Philip. Phil. His husband.

 

The others swam into focus as Clint pulled his hand back, the cube securely tucked back in its box. The lid thumped as Natasha closed it and took it away.

 

“Phil?” Clint stumbled to where Philip sat on the ground, held up by Dean and Anthony. “Oh gods, Phil, what did he do to you?”

 

Dropping on his knees, he got his first look at Philip, Darkness crept across his chest, eager fingers of the lich’s magic crawling up his torso, curling under his skin. Philip gasped, short strangled breaths as blotches appeared on his throat and cheeks. The pain flowed through their bond; Clint’s hand slipped along Philip’s stubbled jaw, covering his mark. He summoned up his own simple melody at first then added the others. Straining to his limits, he gathered the threads around him and wove them into a magical harmony.

 

“Come on Phil. Fight it with me.”

 

Philip’s hand covered Clint’s; blue aura flared, and the music of the spheres rang in his ears. The glow seeped along Philip’s neck, pushing back the invasive evil. So much magic poured out, overflowing Clint’s fingers and cascading down Philip’s body. A blue curtain dropped over his vision, tinting the world; he saw Philip’s eyes clear and his breathing ease. Over their bond the magic flowed, Clint’s senses opening up to the world around them.  He saw Bruce in both his forms bathed in a green light, Darcy with her hair flowing behind her, Anthony in bright red and gold armor, Rhodes in black and silver, Sam with wings spread, Dean and Sam with flaming swords. Steven, clad all in blue with a silver star on his chest, leaning over a man with dark hair, James Barnes; Natasha’s hair burned bright red as it fell across her bowed head. Darkness hung off James’ shoulder like a cloak, bloody slashes zigzagging a pattern from fingers to elbow. Strands connected all three, knots tight and secure, slowly being infected by the poison spreading through James.

 

“Help him,” she asked, turning to Clint. Always aware, Natasha could sense his gaze upon her. “I need him.”

 

Clint lifted one hand off of Philip and stretched out towards James; blue arced, a jolt of energy, splitting into three strands, two curling around Natasha and Steven, the third washing up James’ arm. Magic clashed, warred for control of James’ body. With a howl, James threw back his head, writhing in pain; Steven held him in his arms, feeding James his strength.

 

An open conduit, Clint felt full to bursting, the power rubbing him raw, a cacophony of instruments ringing in his ears. It scrambled his thoughts, yanking him free from the physical moorings that kept him tied down. Pulled thin, he held on to the curve of Philip’s cheek, fighting the current.

 

“I’ve got you,” Philip said, circling his fingers around Clint’s wrist. “Come home, Clint.”

 

Philip’s touch reeled him in, an anchor that he followed back, shaking off the blue tint and returning to himself. Blinking as a wave of exhaustion overtook him, Clint managed a half smile before he crumbled, Dean’s shoulder propping him up.

 

* * *

The flames cast shadows on the branches that hung low, fading quickly into the darkness of the forest at night. The cairns were half-defined shapes looming in the growing fog, just beyond the circle of light. What could have been an eerie setting seemed warm and inviting instead; with the lich trapped once again, the ghosts settled easily into the ground, back to the rest that had been interrupted. A sense of welcome permeated the air as if they were grateful.

 

Leaning against the bole of a tree, Philip absently stroked his fingers through Clint’s hair where his head rested on Philip’s thigh. Groggy, but awake, Clint lay stretched out in their bedroll, exhausted from his experience with the cube. Neither had wanted to be out of contact, the tactile touch of skin to skin grounding both of them. So Philip had let the others make the decision to set up camp and explore the treasure cave Natasha had found in the morning, giving them time to recover. Magical healing saved lives, but it had its limits. Philip’s chest ached still, being pierced by the lich’s spell fresh in his memory. Although his wounds were gone, he’d still drained his reserves trying to hold the creature. Darcy had done the same; she was sleeping curled up next to Philip, room left for Bruce when he finished looking after James. Barnes’ arm needed more care than any of them could give right now; while Clint had stopped the bleeding, closed the gaping rips and driven out the poison, the lich’s claws had cut through sinew and muscle, right down to the bone. How he’d managed to keep fighting through what had to have been agonizing pain spoke to the man’s character.

 

“Stark is talking about some sort of metal framework for James’ arm,” Natasha said, dropping to the ground near Clint. “Bracers and buckler and a gauntlet that will give him strength. James is being a stubborn ass and insisting he can handle it on his own.”

 

“I can see why you like him,” Philip said. The bond between the three was vibrant and easy to discern, a bright new connection.

 

“They have a lot in common,” Clint mumbled in his sleepy voice. “Steven will have his hands full.”

 

“That’s the idea,” Natasha quipped back, gently nudging Clint as a way of checking how he was. “Of course, that’s if we can convince James not to run again. He’s got this crazy notion that he wouldn’t be welcome at the manor.”

 

That was Natasha’s round about way of asking the question. Before Philip could answer, Clint snorted. “Obviously he doesn’t know us very well. None of us have been saints; well, maybe Phil, but certainly not you or me. Who are we to judge? You trust him, right?”

 

“With my life,” she said, paused, then changed her answer. “With my heart.”

 

Philip’s fingers stilled at that declaration. “That’s good enough for us,” he said quietly. Natasha gave him a genuine smile in return.

 

“Although, I don’t know if we have a room big enough for the size bed the three of you will need,” Clint added.

 

“There’s that old shearing house just off from our place,” Darcy offered, stretching her body and turning to face them. “Two big rooms and some storage space that could be converted into a bath. Far enough away from the manor and closer to the edge of the forest. He’d probably like a little distance.”

 

“It needed rechinking and a new roof. With spring coming, we can get moving on it right away. Laird Thomas has a son who’s into woodworking; he can make a big bed frame.” Philip was already jumping ahead, making lists in his head to get the job accomplished.

 

“You don’t have to go out of your way for us,” Steven said, corralling James with him and carrying bed rolls for the three of them. “We’ll be glad to do the work ourselves.”

 

Standing, Natasha helped him spread out the ground cloth and blankets. “Philip is a master organizer. He’ll probably have it ready by the time we get back.”

 

“Annamarie’s already on it,” Darcy added. “She’s got men digging up trenches for piping as we speak.”

 

“Okay, we’ve got the watches set for the night,” Sam Wilson said. “Samuel, Dean, Rhodes, and I will split the four shifts. Stark’s already knee deep in designs and taking apart Natasha’s torch, so he’ll be awake too.”

 

“You sure?” Steven asked. “You all fought too.”

 

“We’ve been through a lot worse,” Dean assured them. “The lich kept other bad things away; it’ll be a few days before they realize he’s gone, so we should be fairly safe here. As safe as we can be in an ancient burial ground.”

 

“Someone needs to keep Tony out of the cave,” Rhodes said. “At least until it’s been checked for traps. So Philip and Darcy need to get their sleep.”

 

“I’m not going to complain about a full night of rest,” Philip said, lifting Clint’s head so he could pull off his boots.

 

Everyone spent a few minutes spreading their own bed rolls around the fire and settling in, joking with each other as friends do. James hung back, just outside of the circle, listening to the banter, easing away, inch by inch. With one step, Natasha blocked his escape route and guided him towards the makeshift bed. “You need to rest,” she told him. “They’re not going to kill you in your sleep, I promise. Steve and I are going to be on either side of you. 

 

“So true.” Clint snuggled up to Philip, spooning against him. “Natasha will kill me in a slow horrible way if I’m not nice to you. Trust in our fear of her if nothing else. Besides, I’m too tired from wrestling with cosmic magic to do anything but rest myself. Even if I wanted to, I’d have to wait until tomorrow to make my move.”

 

“Me too,” Bruce added as he sat down and took off his boots. Lifting the blanket, he curled up behind Darcy. “The big guy won’t make another appearance until I get some down time.”

 

“But if …” James began. Steven cut him off.

 

“You’re ours now, remember?” He nudged James’ knee, guiding him down to the ground. “And I know you want to see what’s in that cave. Curiosity was always your worst habit.”

 

“You seemed to like it in Gatville when I wanted to know about …” James grinned as the  two of them put James in the middle.

 

“So, Natasha. How did you know the box would work?” Steven interrupted, glaring at James. The smile that lit his face made Philip realize how handsome James was underneath the worn folds and tired eyes.

 

“Clint told me.” That statement got everyone’s attention. “Well, Clint’s ancestor. He looked just like you except he had dark hair and was quite a bit older than you. His ghost showed me the box and told me to use it. I think he was tied to the cube somehow;  I thought maybe Clint would be the best person to touch it.”

 

“So you had no idea that would work?” Clint asked her. “You just handed it to me and sent me into battle without knowing what would happen?”

 

“You’d figure it out. You always do.” She gave Clint a fond look. “The ghost said my debt was paid. Strange.”

 

“The lich kept talking as if he knew who we were,” Steven said. “Called us all by name and said we never win.”

 

“I imagine time gets strange when you live long enough,” Bruce mumbled, already half asleep. “Names and face would blend together. I wonder how long he’s been like that? Who he was before?”

 

Philip felt Clint shiver, and he hugged him tight to his chest, tucking his head into the crook of Clint’s neck.

 

“The cube is ancient,” Clint whispered into the growing stillness. “Older than the lich and he felt impossibly old. I think it’s pre-cataclysm, possibly not even of this world. I know that’s unbelievable, but it felt alien, odd, a completely different sort of magic.”

 

“The things I saw in the cave. I’ve seen pictures of some of them in books,” Natasha said. “I’d believe it.”

 

“Question is, what do we do with the cube now?” Steven asked. “If it’s that powerful …”

 

“We make sure no one ever gets their hands on it,” Philip said with a surety it didn’t feel.

 

 

[1] “Lady Lazarus” by Sylvia Plath

[2] “Daddy” by Sylvia Plath. Paraphrased a bit to make it fit.

[3] “Sailing to Byzantium” by William Butler Yeats.

[4] a paraphrase of “Leda and the Swan” by Yeats.

 

[5] “Planetarium” by Adrienne Rich

[6] Johann Wolfgang Goethe


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the Lich defeated, our heroes regroup, make plans, and begin to deal with all the changes. Of course, the path of true love never did run smooth and there is no rest for the weary. This chapter marks the end of this installment of the Bonds of Old series, but fear not, the seeds of the next story are already sown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very, very sorry for how long it took to get this final chapter out. I have no excuse except to say my muse was a bitch who deserted me for long periods of time. That and a severe depressive episode didn't help. Anyway, I hate to leave things hanging this long and am very grateful to all of you who held on with me. 
> 
> The next stage of the story will split as the action moves outward to include Tony's problems in Burosey. Time to face the music for our favorite mechanic.

“Flex your fingers again,” Anthony said, tightening a screw under the vanbrace on James’ forearm. Wiggling them, James looked up as Steve came into the armory that Anthony had taken over for his work since they’d arrived back at the manor. Lord Stark had practically co-opted Luke Cage the minute the two men met; Sam joked that it was love at first sight between two men whose gifts ran to working metal. Anthony provided the ideas; Luke brought an artistry to the shaping of the mechanical armored skeleton that covered James from shoulder down to his fingertips.

 

“It’s catching on the cowter. I can smooth that edge out and shave down the rivet,” Luke said. “Add a nice curve so the pieces articulate for a fuller range of motion”

 

“You just want to put some more of that scrollwork Bruce gave you. Protective glyphs never looked so good,” Anthony joked.

 

“Can’t hurt,” Luke shrugged, ever good natured. The big man was the calm to Anthony’s whirl of activity.

 

Taking off the parts in question, James caught a glimpse of the wicked scars that ran from his shoulder down his arm. Still an angry red, they ran in jagged patterns, reminders of the lich’s claws that left him less control over his muscles and diminished strength. All the magical healing couldn’t take away those puckered lines or the memory of the bone deep pain. Despite Clint’s use of the cube’s magic and Bruce’s skills, James was going to have to accept the fact that his left arm would never be the same as it was before.  How he’d gotten talked into letting Anthony Stark experiment with integrated armor, James wasn’t sure; all he knew was the look Steven got in his eyes when he first saw the gleaming silver made James’s cock stir with an answering heat. Seems Steven had a kink even James didn’t know about. The least James could do was keep going and take every opportunity handed him; Steven and Natasha wouldn’t settle for anything less. Their bond was James’ anchor through the shifting fortunes, the changes that were coming too fast for him to take in all the implications.

 

With the lich captured, the Cairns had become a more welcoming place, a sense of peace pervading through the mounds as the ghosts went back to their eternal slumber. One look at the cavern of wonders, as Anthony called it, and Clint agreed with Philip that it was worth the time to investigate and pack up the treasures. Bruce and Darcy stayed to oversee the demagicking of any traps and devices along with Sam and Samuel. Stark was adamant about going through the mechanical gadgets, so Rhodes, unwilling to leave the Lord alone after his previous kidnapping, offered his strong back to lug up caskets and crates. Dean lit out for Singer’s place to bring him word of what had happen and get his expertise.

 

James was grateful when Steven and Natasha both agreed to ride back with Clint and Philip.  Too many people overwhelmed him, his memories of the past flowing back in a torrent now that he was no longer under the Sorcerer’s control. But they were jumbled and confusing, mixed together with long blanks and fuzzy images that weren’t his own.  The whole way, neither Clint nor Philip made mention of James’ sudden presence; in fact, it was as if he’d always been a part of the band, riding comfortably abreast with Steven or Natasha. On the second day, Clint fell in beside James and started telling stories about his exploits with Natasha until she threw a snowball at his head to shut him up. James knew it couldn’t be that easy, not with the baggage he was carrying. But the days on the trail settled him with their quiet, easy pace as much as sleeping tucked in Steven’s arms and holding onto Natasha’s warm body.

 

Upon arriving at the manor, Philip immediately took charge and organized wagons and guards for a return trip. If James had felt overwhelmed at the Cairns, the bustle of Barton hold was a wash of new voices and names and big personalities. The Asgardian prince, Thor, welcomed him enthusiastically (Loki with black hair and leather, a smooth voice with soft hands. “So interesting, our little soldier), a tall blonde Amazon of a woman, Carol, eyed him across the hall (Peggy fighting, her sword a bright blur as she spun at her attacker), and a dark haired woman, Jessica, who looked right into him as if she knew him (“You are a ghost, nothing but the icy cold finger of death").

 

Worse was when Anthony came back on the second cart load, chattering on about this idea of enhancing James’ arm. Everytime he looked at the man’s handsome face, all James could see was the echoes of Howard Stark; he could feel the twang of the bowstring, hear the thunk of the arrow hitting Howard’s chest, see the surprise in his eyes over and over. At night, in the two beds pushed together in Natasha’s room, James dreamed of wide eyes and bloody mouths and death rattles; Steven just held him tighter, but Natasha would whisper her own regrets in his ear and they’d lay wrapped together, two tortured souls in the darkness.

 

“Try the finger joints on,” Anthony told him, breaking his train of thought. For someone who talked all the time and never stopped moving, Stark didn’t care if James sat in silence, filling the void with his own voice and thoughts. “I’ve worked on the individualized movement and slimmed down the struts.”

 

Each finger slipped into place, surrounded by tiny metal rods cut perfectly to match joints to joints. As he wiggled each one then all of the five together, James could feel Anthony’s magic at work, supporting the weaker pinkie and ring finger and adding strength to the others. A soft ticking as he made a fist was much better than the first time they’d tried. A dagger lay on the table; James extended his hand and carefully curled around the hilt, closing his grip until he could pick it up. The weight was familiar and comforting; he could feel the cool of the iron against his palm as he gingerly gave it a spin, reversing the blades direction and tightening in again.

 

“That’s coming along,” Anthony said, watching with a grin. “Yes, indeed, I am pretty good even if I do say so myself. With practice you’ll have as much mobility as you did before, maybe more with the added magic. Definitely going to be stronger, that’s for sure.”

 

Turning to the table, Anthony began fiddling with some small tools, working on yet another piece of Bucky’s metal arm. The truth pressed against James’ tongue, demanding he speak the words; Luke was busy by the fire, working out the edge with a hammer. Now was as good a time as any.

 

“Stark.” James’s voice was hoarse from disuse. “Anthony. I need to …”

 

“I know.” Anthony looked over his shoulder; he really did have gorgeous blue eyes. “Everyone said it was an impossible shot, that it had to be an accident. But I know it wasn’t. Howard had many enemies, some very powerful. It was only a matter of time, considering the life he led.”  Anthony tightened a rivet, absently tapping his fingers in a rhythm. “I don’t know if you remember, but we met while I was a prisoner. I saw where they kept you and what they did to you.”

 

“I don’t … it’s jumbled,” James admitted.

 

“Well, take it from me, you were no more in control than those walking corpses he animated.” Anthony shrugged it off. “Here, let’s see if this makes a difference. I’ve adjusted the tension in the buckler link. Oh, and the whole rig is waterproof and lubricant friendly.”

 

“What?” James’s head jerked up to find Anthony grinning at him.

 

“Captain Good seems to be particularly interested in the gloves,” Anthony said with a wink.

* * *

 

“Where are we going to put all this?” Clint asked, stepping around the crates, careful not to disrupt Philip’s cataloguing system. The most delicate of the treasure -- books, scrolls, and other fragile pieces -- went here to Bruce’s workshop where magical protections were already in place to protect them from the elements. Anything mechanical was packed up and delivered to the workshop Anthony had taken over; he spread them out over tables and classified them by types. Surprisingly, Dean Winchester had been the one who started cataloguing the items before Anthony took them apart; the hunter displayed a hitherto unseen talent at rebuilding delicate parts into working wholes. The gold, and there was more than Clint had even seen in one place, was secured in the vault behind the wine cellar. Clint and Philip had already agreed to spread it out into different stashes; last thing Clint wanted to do was make the manor a target for other Lords and raiders. “I brought you lunch. Dax made a pot of stew from last night’s left over mutton and Annamarie tucked in a couple dried apple pies. Time to take a break.”

 

“Ahhhhhh,” Philip sighed as he stood and stretched, raising his arms above his head and bending back. He’d removed his jacket and vest, working in his linen shirt with sleeves rolled up despite the coolness of the room. The fire burned low in the grate, heat a danger to the crumbling parchments. As Philip rolled his body, arms in front now, one wrist clasped in the other, the linen pulled across his shoulders, highlighting the curved muscles in his arms and along his back. Just like that, the need hit Clint square in the gut; he sat the the basket down and crossed over to his husband, sliding his arms around Philip’s waist and plastering his body along those lines. His lips found the taut muscle of Philip’s neck as Philip  bent his head and dropped little kisses along it. 

 

“I thought we were going to eat,” Philip said, his hands covering Clint’s, centering them in the growing magic. They were both gaining control, learning to direct the energies rather than letting them flow wild. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you. Just wondering if you locked the door.”

 

Clint chuckled against Philip’s skin. “It’s habit by now regardless,” Clint told him. “That and carrying Bruce’s new gel in its small pouch everywhere I go. That’s what happens when you have a husband as sexy as you.”

 

“Blaming me, are you?” Philip’s voice made his adam’s apple vibrate as he spoke. “Well, it looks like having a large pallet in here was a good decision.”

 

“Oh, no, we’re not using the bed.” Clint caught Philip’s hands and moved them to the edge of the table, bending him forward from the waist as he braced them both. “Right here. You can look at your beloved books while I fuck you.”

 

“Clint. I can’t … it will ruin the books if I … “ Philip protested.

 

“Then you’ll have to not come until I’m done and can turn you around and finish you off with my mouth,” Clint stated as if it was the most obvious answer.

 

“Oh, gods above,” Philip breathed. “You are going to kill me. So much magic in the room to set off.”

 

“You’re always saying you need to practice in stressful conditions.” Clint’s hands began untying Philip’s laces as he rubbed his own erection against Philip’s ass. “Consider this a test.”

 

Clint slipped his fingers along Philip’s length, stroking the warm flesh, feeling it stir at his caress. No matter how often they touched, Clint never lost the sense of wonder at this passionate man destiny had sent his way. He loved the tiny sounds Philip made in the back of his throat, aborted moans and breathy ohs. The way Philip’s skin overheated, his cock flushing red as it hardened, blush rising in his cheeks. The tilt of his head as he turned, the pause after his exhale as his eyes dilated and his lips parted. The roll of his hips as he pressed into Clint’s hand, the soft warmth of his mouth as Clint kissed him. The stir of magic in Clint’s gut, the sinking into each other’s energy. Feeling what Philip was feeling, adding their power together and feeding the fire between them.

 

Despite the spike of lust, Clint took his time, slicking his fingers with gel and stroking Philip to full hardness as he whispered his love into Philip’s mouth. The heat of their skin drove away the chill in the air and they shed clothes, motions more like a familiar caress. The curve of Philip’s neck begged for Clint’s mouth; as he slid into Philip, slick and easy, he sucked a line of red spots into the tender skin. Thrusting up, Clint savored every gasp and groan, a counter melody in harmony with the music in Clint’s head. He murmured endearments and encouragement in Philip’s ear, promises of forever and more.

 

“Ah, Phil.” Clint tightened his hold, fingers pressing into Philip’s skin as he came. He rested his cheek against Philip’s, breathing heavily. “So good. Always.”

 

“Clint,” Philip murmured. They leaned together for a moment, buoyed up by the energies swirling around them then Clint chuckled low in his throat, slid out and turned Philip to face him.

 

“Your turn.” Clint spread the drops leaking from Philip‘s cock around the head, loosely wrapping his hand around the length.

 

“Won’t take long,” Philip told him, eyes already clouded, body tensely coiled, already on the edge.

 

Swooping in for a kiss, Clint gave one, two then three hard strokes and Philip toppled over, coming splattering on Clint’s hand and both of their shirts. Gathering Philip in his arms, Clint touched his forehead to Philip’s and they synced their breathing as they calmed down.

 

“You are so bad,” Philip joked.

 

“Scoundrel, remember?” Clint chuckled. “And you love me for it.”

 

Philip lifted his head and wrapped his hands along the curve of Clint’s jaws. “You, Clint Barton, are the finest man I’ve ever met.” So earnest, his eyes serious, Philip wouldn’t let Clint look away. “Yes, I love the bad and the good and what you bring out in me. I’m so much stronger with you than I could ever imagine.”

 

“Stop, Phil.” Heat rushed to Clint’s cheeks. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. The manor, the town, the people … we’re all safe and sound because of you.”

 

“Clint, I …” A movement caught Philip’s eye; Clint followed the line of his sight. A book spun lazily in mid-air, covers parted, thin vellum pages fluttering open in an invisible wind. What had once been white leather was darkened with age, tea colored in places, smattering of mold in others. The gold lettering that ran around the edges was faded, rubbed away in places, but the black circle on the front still had a glaring red eye and a ring of golden words around it. It settled slowly on the edge of the table, pages falling to a dogeared spread with writing in the margins and faded highlights marring the perfect type. Patches of vellum were missing, the thin pages eaten through by the elements. Only snatches remained and one quatrain from a poem.

 

_All that is gold does not glitter;_

_all that is long does not last;_

_All that is old does not wither;_

_not all that is over is past. **[1]**_

 

“Now what does that mean?” Clint asked. A rhetorical question since Philip wouldn’t know the answer either. “Just once couldn’t we get a nice simple ‘do this’?”

 

“I suspect it means that this is only just beginning,” Philip replied.

 

“Oh, good. It wasn’t hard enough already to convince Stark and the others to go home.” Clint sighed. “We’re going to have to build another wing on the house.”

 

“Well, we do have enough money to pay for it now,” Philip, ever the optimist, said.

* * *

 

“‘We need a bigger meeting space,” Natasha told Clint. The guards’ mess was the only place they could all gather with any level of privacy. The other option was the main hall with far too many people wandering in and out or the church in town where everyone would immediately know they were there and could listen at the windows.

 

“Phil’s already planning another wing on the manor. A ballroom, a formal receiving room and more bedrooms. He’s expanding the wall of the office next to the library to make a war room.” Clint’s brow was smooth, his gait loose and easy. He’d had sex with Philip recently; Natasha was starting to understand how much bonds healed and made them stronger.

 

“Explain to me again how we went from sleeping on the ground to having a full treasury and building a castle of our own?” It amazed her, how much things had changed. A year ago, they owned little more than their horses and a bedroll, and she’d been convinced this was the best she was going to get, a man she loved like a brother and trustworthy friends to guard her back.

 

“I ask myself that every day.” Clint knew the second before Philip’s hand settled on his back, five pulse points of heat and a palm of energy that slid across the leather. “And here’s part of the explanation.”

 

 “Whatever I’m being blamed for, I probably did it,” Philip said. A smile covered his face, real happiness an aura around him.

 

“From your good spirits, I’d say the spell worked?” she asked.

 

“All we had to do was knock and the Queen answered. Thor downplayed her abilities; she’s very skilled. And anxious to meet her future daughter-in-law.” Philip’s eyes practically sparkled. “If they find anything in the treasury, Thor says they’ll sent it down with an envoy.”

 

“Another bonding ceremony?” Clint chuckled. “Next you’ll be planning to build a special hall or …” Clint paused and looked over at his husband. “You’ve already started, haven’t you?”

 

“The Abbey grounds are sacred; the walls of the chapel are still standing. As soon as the roof is finished on Natasha’s new place, the workers are going to work on the chapel. Singer’s wards will be another layer of protection.” Ever efficient, Philip had plans within plans. “Should be ready by early summer.”

 

“Don’t give me that look.” Natasha knew what he was preparing for and she wasn’t even thinking about a wedding for herself. “We’re staying, that’s the only given at the moment.”

 

She noted James entering a step behind Steven, sticking to the fringes of the room, speaking to no one. Silver armor gleamed in the lantern light as he picked up a mug of cider; a red star adorned the bicep piece, flexing as he moved. The arm was becoming part of him the more he practiced, the magic Anthony had woven into the metal connecting the limb to the man. Still far too jumpy, James had a long way to go before others could earn his trust.

 

“I must say, Coulson, you have the best food at council meetings. Makes the damn things almost bearable.” Anthony popped a tiny jam pastry in his mouth, going straight for dessert. “For a backwater nowhere, you put the royal chefs to shame.”

 

“Backwater somewhere,” Clint corrected him. “Seems you like it here better than your own castle.”

 

Anthony grinned. “Nobody here to make me go to boring ribbon cuttings and listen to droning sermons. I can tinker to my heart’s content. I even like the company better.”

 

“Don’t let Pepper hear you say that,” James Rhodes said.  “She’s holding down the fort for you, you know.” The question earned a groan from Anthony; when he started to reply, Rhodes shoved another pastry in his Lord’s mouth.

 

“Hey,” Anthony protested with his mouth full. He took a breath and swallowed the wrong way; coughing, his face turned red.  Steven was closest; he stepped up and smacked Anthony on the back, hard enough to knock Anthony forward.  As Stark started to fall, Natasha grabbed one wrist at the same time that James caught the other.

 

A wave of loneliness washed through the bond, sharp as a knife. Natasha’s heart twisted and opened wider, James and Steven pouring into their now familiar places and a new tendril reached out, tentative and unsure.

 

“As much as I like all of you,” Anthony said, pulling away. “This is awkward and I need a drink.”

 

Like that, the connection ended, broken abruptly like a door slammed shut. She shared a glance with Steven and James; whatever had happened, Stark acted as if he’d felt nothing.

 

“If everyone is ready?” Philip said, moving to his place at the front of the room, oblivious to the internal drama going on around him. “We have much to discuss starting with Prince Thor’s planned return to Asgard.”

 

The mystery of Anthony Stark would have to wait; there were dangers that surrounded them to deal with first.

 

* * *

 

Steven moaned and arched his back, driving his hips forward and sinking into Natasha’s heat. Her knees clenched tighter, her powerful thighs clamped around his waist; her hands were clasped behind his neck, sweaty and slick, holding on to Steven as she rose and fell into his thrusts. Behind him, James matched the rhythm, pressing in deep, his nose buried into the edges of Steven’s close cropped hair, just above Natasha’s laced fingers.

 

The bond swirled around them, shaking the walls of cottage and rattling what little furniture they had in the room. All Steven could do was hold onto the rope that suspended him from the ceiling, at the mercy of James and Natasha’s whims. They were in charge, James’ determined to drive Steven crazy with his metal fingers and Natasha flat out pushing both men to their limits. Agile and strong, she brought Steven over the edge and took him right back up again. He, on the other hand, made it his mission to find all the ways to make Natasha shatter for him.

 

Like the pull of a tide, the magic washed him towards the edge; he let it carry him, the three of them wound together into a whole, the rushing current and quiet depths and buoyant lake. Steven tipped over, coming in slow waves, catching the magic as James and Natasha followed him over, riding the crest into the best orgasm he’d ever had. He dropped his head forward onto Natasha’s shoulder, turning to watch as James leaned in for a leisurely kiss. Time slowed; he floated on the sensation, wrapped in their warmth. Lazily, he traced the distinct sense of Natasha, her depths and desire, then James with his soft heart and harder edges.

 

A whisper caught his attention, the slightest stirring, a flash of gold, here then gone. Aching need, a memory or an unknown, something else …

 

“It’s Stark,” Natasha said, stretching as she put her feet down on the floor and untied Steven’s hands. She walked to the water pitcher and poured fresh into the bowl; firelight reflected off her pale naked skin. “I’ve felt him once or twice since we’ve gotten back.”

 

“There’s more to him than he lets on.” James dropped a kiss on Steven’s neck. “We’ve talked while he worked on my arm. Well, he talked; I listened. The man never shuts up.”

 

“But why?” Steven couldn’t understand; he’d heard of people being sensitive to others’ gifts, reading auras and even sometimes thoughts, but for the three of them to all be connected to the same person?

 

“There are moments,” Natasha said, staring into the flames, “when I see .. remember … people that I never knew. The first time James marked me, I heard him talking in an unknown language, calling me by another name. I don’t know what it means, but I think Stark is caught up in it as well.”

 

“We all are,” James agreed. “The Lich said we’d fought this battle before. He knew us, or at least our names.” Rather than get dressed, he snatched a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around the three of them, gathering them together. Only one chaise sat before the hearth, and they snuggled close, James at the back and Natasha curled against Steven’s chest.

 

“Tis a sad thing to think that evil such as he survived,” Steven mused. “I always want to believe that good triumphs.” It was, after all, what he’d fought for all those years ago and continued to work for now.

 

“A wise man once wrote that we cannot master all the tides of the world, but only uproot evil in the fields that we know, so that those who live after may have clean earth to till. What weather they have we cannot rule.”[2] Natasha wiggled in tighter, a half-smile on her face at Steven’s cock’s reaction. His quick rebound amused her. “We can only live in today; tomorrow is beyond our control.”

 

“We’ve bonded ourselves to a philosopher,” James said with a laugh. “Personally, I think evil never dies, just goes in remission until it grows strong enough to return.”

 

“Everyone has good in them.” The rock core of Steven’s view of the world, the idea that everyone can be saved. He knew James and Natasha exchanged a look, but he didn’t care. It was their job, after all, to be the realists. Steven was the idealist.

“Keep thinking that; someone has to,” Natasha said, fighting through a big yawn. “Right now, I believe I’m going to take a quick nap before sword practice with Jess and Carol.”

 

“That’s what you get for not sleeping at night.” Steven had woken up in the dark a number of times to find himself alone in the bed between cool sheets. Stealth wasn’t his long suit; Steven preferred a frontal assault in daylight. The great irony of his life was falling in love with the two best assassins in the world. “But a nap sounds good to me. Andrew and I are going to oil my beauty's scales later. You should come along, Buck. I know she misses you.”

 

“She’ll lick me. She always licks me,” James complained. His metal arm wrapped around Steven and he curled his fingers along Natasha’s arm. “I’ve missed her.”

 

“Well, we’re back together now,” Steven murmured. Natasha’s breathing had already evened out, her head leaning on Steven’s chest. James did that little huff as he settled down, resting his cheek on the back of chaise so Steven could stretch out his legs and use James’ chest to prop himself up. “There’s nothing we can’t deal with.”

 

~+~+~+~+~+~

 

She shivered, wet slimy stones beneath her fingers, her broken and torn nails throbbing as she desperately held on. Eyes closed, she couldn’t see, but she could feel the stir of air as things dropped past her and the splash as they hit the surface below. Big splashes, smaller ones … bodies given a watery grave, her friends and family all dead and gone. Tears rolled down her cheeks, big and fat; she bit back a sob, more terrified of the men above than the dead below.

 

“It’s not here,” the one voice complained. Green cape, one of the leaders, metal armor -- she’d gotten a glimpse of him from her perch on top of the chapter house as they arrived. His sword had run red with blood as he slashed through the guard. “I’m getting tired of these snatch and grabs. It’s not enough; we should be mounting an offensive, not playing these penny ante games.”

 

“He has his own agenda,” the second one said. Slick and handsome, he sounded like her father. Logical, reasonable, and a big liar. He’d killed with a touch of his hand and sweep of his dagger. “One he doesn’t see fit to share with the likes of us.”

 

“Well, he can damn well tell me why I’m sent off to chase down pieces of armor while the Red Knight has control over a whole phalanx. I’m done running his errands.”

 

Her fingers slipped and she almost tumbled down the well shaft; her bare toes scrabbled for purchase, keeping her in place. A small sound escaped her lips and she froze, pressing her face into the stone wall.

 

“Did you hear something?” Angry voice grew louder. Her whole body shook as she ducked her head to hide the reflection of her eyes, just like Buck had taught her. The retired armsmaster had been her trainer and her friend; he’d bought her time to hide herself.

 

“I hear only your whining,” the handsome one replied. “Come, gather your forces. I need no interruptions for my spellcasting.”

 

“It’s a waste of time.” The voices receded as they continued to talk. “I’m riding back immediately.”

 

“You do that. I can’t wait to see how that works out.”

 

She had no idea how long she stayed, crouched along the side of the well but it was after the sun went down and everything got quiet, too quiet, unnaturally still. No sounds from the kitchen, no guards walking their rounds, no horses neighing in the stables. She hung on until her muscles protested, going weak and shaky, then she climbed as silently as she could to the place where stones were loose, the secret way she used to sneak out of the villa when her stepmonster locked her in her room. The old aqueduct system in case of floods, she didn’t need to see to make her way to the spur that ran down towards the ocean. The knapsack waited where she’d left it, her daydreams about running away to the Capitol simple and childish now. Her stomach growled, but she stuck to the woods along the beach, heading east towards Lavanah. There were ports there and ships to get her as far as Burosey. Buck had been clear in his instructions.

 

Dashing the tears from her cheeks, Katherine Bishop, fourteen-years-old, last survivor of the attack on the Bishop estate, ran through the brush and bramble with only three gold pieces, a handful of silver, two of her mother’s books, one change of clothes, her favorite bow and quiver. The silver bracer wrapped in oil cloth she tucked into her pouch, ignoring the blood stains and the tear drops that dotted it. She headed north on the advice of a dead man with only a location and a name to guide her. Barton Manor. Hawkeye.

 

 

 

 

 

[1] Eagle eyed readers probably notice this is worded slightly differently than the poem as it appears in _The Fellowship of the Ring_. Interestingly, this is an earlier draft that Christopher Tolkien published in _The Treason of Isengard_. Thought I’d use it here since it’s in simpler language. Also, the edition described is the one I remember my middle school library having, so a bit of nostalgia there.

[2] Gandalf, “The Last Debate,” _Return of the King_ by J. R. R. Tolkien.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, yes, I know. I fought the story tooth and nail when I realized in chapter 8 that Tony wanted into the threesome. I was half-planning on Tony and Pepper or Tony and Rhodey, but Tony, it seemed, had his own ideas. Probably because I've been writing a series on sexualities and I have become fascinated with an asexual Tony who puts up a front as a womanizer/playboy to hide his insecurities. Once that was in my head, I couldn't stop but think of the possibilities of Tony & Steve, the drama of Tony & James (both wounded and hiding scars), and Tony & Natasha (both using sex to hide). So I wrote and rewrote and finally gave up and went with it. 
> 
> Kate Bishop, on the other hand, has been in the planning for a long time. Phil and Clint need an heir, after all. :)


End file.
